Capitain Scaramouche: Into the Fire We Fly
by TWSythar
Summary: Complete! Early 1830. The Amis have been arrested and there are two very unlikely people left to help them. Who would ever suspect Joly and Grantaire? Chapter 12: Joly and Grantaire discuss irony, L'aigle makes a shocking discovery and loses his temper.
1. Who Trusts Whom?

The Cafe Musain was commonly particularly overly populated by those young men who - in Perceval-Alexis Grantaire's opinion - were rather too over-endowed with brains, passion, optimism, and a particularly nausiating tendency to wish to change the world. Usually by the time he had finished with his job, drunk a pleasantly relaxing glass or two of wine, and made his relaxed way up to the Cafe - there were revolutionarily criminal plans flying through the air powered by a miserly amount of wine and Enjolras. Enjolras was, quite frankly, the most beautifully awe-inspiring rude person Grantaire had ever met. Somehow he couldn't find anything except humble awe in his heart for the ange - despite the charismatic (albeit rather legally obtuse) leader's intense dislike of his good self.

Grantaire could never quite decide whether disliking him made Enjolras more or less intelligent.

However today Grantaire walked into a deserted backroom. Not a single revolutionarily inclined young man dotted the landscape. Grantaire wondered several things as he seated himself at his usual table. Firstly and foremostly - had Enjolras finally become so irritated with his constant presence that he had changed the location of the meeting without telling him? Had everyone caught one of the constant diseases passing through Joly's system and succumbed to the poetically appealing but rather over-done theme of death? Or had he - being the muddle-brained drunkard everyone loved to mildly dislike - forgotten the proper time and managed to show up on some ridiculously unlikely time and date? He waved over a young girl who looked like someone had wrenched the head off a broom and attached it to her head in an act of extreme cruelty, and ordered a glass or two of wine.

Or three. Or maybe, should his inebriation survive that far without detection from Enjolras - the God of Sobriety - four, five, six.

A man ran into the cafe and collapsed across from him, wheezing loudly. Joly. Jooooollyyy. Joli. Joli Joly. Ah to have a name so prone to puns and pranks of the imagination. Grantaire eyed him with some appreciation. At least if the god-like Enjolras had decided to change the meeting place without telling him, he had also neglected to tell Maurice Joly. Which made him feel better. Nothing like shared misery.

He swallowed a mouthful of wine and allowed the alcohol to breathe on his voice. "Hey.... Joly.... you not catching pneumonia 'gain, are you? Zephyr wouldn't like th' way you're sucking up all that air." Greek gods and little Roman gods, all frightfully good for metaphors. And they irritated Combeferre, who complained he used them out of context.

Joly - who Grantaire was well aware held little patience of particular like for drunkards who spouted cynical classic references at him, gave a loud wheeze and coughed as he leaned over the table. It seemed that their pet hypochonriac and malade imaginaire had been running around the city in search of a little pneumonia or asthma. "_Damn_ Zephyr."

My my. The little 'doctor' all out of sorts? He leaned back comfortably and raised a cynical eyebrow in his general direction. Ha. "I'm sure that a lot of sailors share your sentiments, my fine 'friend'," always chancy using that word. He took an artistic care to only say 'friend' in the lightest of tones. "What's got you all out of sorts? They stop selling handkerchiefs?" That particular disaster would be bound to set poor young Joli Joly on edge more than a plague of locusts.

Rather to his curious surprise, Joly gave him a baleful glare. "Stop joking. It's serious. Has anyone else been in here? _Anyone_?"

Respectable glare, it was too. Just the right blend of disapproval and disgust. He'd been taking instruction from Enjolras, surely. "No... 'm first for once. Odd that." Odd. Bewildering... Curious. Very curious."

"And nobody who's not with us, either?" A touch of nerves, and the hair began to lift on Grantaire's neck.

There was something seriously wrong. "....no. What's wrong, Joly?"

The doctor took a deep breath, still panting from whatever exertion he'd been involved in before the Cafe. "Everyone else's been arrested. Combeferre, Prouvaire, Daniel, everybody. Even... even Enjolras. I only just escaped."

Grantaire considered several swearwords, decided that none of them were in any way strong enough for the situation, and swallowed his drink so fast that he couldn't even feel it burning his throat. "Zues. Why?"

"Why do you _think_?" there was a terseness to Joly's voice that took Grantaire by surprise. Like being bitten by a prawn. Or - he felt a little uncharitable at that - perhaps a lamb. "Hardly a popular group with the government."

A lamb with surprisingly sharp teeth. He rubbed his face in the hopes that both sharp-=toothed lamb and empty Cafe might disappear. They didn't. Well there went his faith in eternal optimism. "But _arrested_... that's not.... dear _god_."

"Yes."****

"You all right?" Not the smartest think he'd ever asked.

Joly gave him a look. "Just fine"

Good. Good. "...what can we do?"

"_We?_"

There was something in Joly's voice that Grantaire didn't particularly like. He blinked and gave him a quick double-take. "Um." Intelligent. "Shouldn't we... do something?"

"You're actualy... intending to help."

Well. Now that was just lovely. He contemplated getting angry, and discarded the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. Instead he slowly put down the glass and gave Joly a long stare. "...why wouldn't I?

"You..." Joly said with an emphasis he was quite prepared to take exception to. "Never do _anything._ Much less anything _helpful_. Hng. I can't think of anyone willing to bail them out, even to avoid a scandal."

Ah. Lovely. A little packaged presumption and judgment from someone who didn't like him and barely knew him. And Enjolras wondered why he had given up on the human race.

"...I just don't know _what_ to do. _Dieu_ I'm just _hopeless..._ be just as helpful in there _with_ them..."**  
**  
Oui. Lovely, Joly. Glad I'm not the only one feeling like a loss and blight on the face of the earth here. He opened his mouth once, closed it again, then took a breath and said it aloud, quietly as though that would make it less surprising. "I suppose we could always... just... get them out again..."

"Just never going to..." Joly stopped, looked at him, and sat up a little. "What?"

Don't tell me I'm not supposed to have original thought either. "I said," he gave Joly a slightly defensive glare. "we could get them out again."**  
**  
"Well... that would obviously be the goal, but _how_?"

Good. You're not laughing. Step up Jacob's precious Putain ladder. He leaned forwards a little, thinking it through. "..few ways. I mean... there's ways in an' out of prison, right? We could bust them out."****

"_We_ could bust them out?" there was less disbelief in his voice.

Yes, little doctor, I _am_ offering to help. You can stop mentioning it as though it is one of the seven greatest wonders of the world now. "I figure we could. No one's going to expect that, are they?"

He noted to some amusement that Joly took a moment to look from himself to Grantaire and back again. "... no. Not really."

He laughed at that, a small cynical laugh. The malade imaginaire and his pet drunk. Perfect. "Well. There we are then."


	2. Find a Way To Right This Wrong

Maurice Joly could not believe he was actually going to _Grantaire_ for help. At the moment, though, he didn't appear to have any other choice. He himself had no idea what to do, and it seemed that the other man did. Whatever had to be done was going to be done, and as quickly as possible. "So what do you plan to do, exactly?" he asked quickly, hoping to ward off the smug look he could well imagine on Grantaire's face. But he only got shot down for his troubles.

"Don't think we should talk here anymore," the drunkard said slowly. "All that we've said so far is drunken ravings which could be said to be grief at the loss of our friends. Anyone could be listening. You could come back to my flat…if you like."

Hm. It appeared that Grantaire was quite possibly not as much of a fool as he had always thought. The thought was mildly disturbing and he tried to put it out of his mind; there couldn't be any room for anything else, not the slightest room. For once in his life he had to focus. He _had_ to.

"That would probably be a good idea," he said quietly, finally snapping himself out of his thoughts. He still hadn't quite caught his breath yet and hoped Grantaire's apartment was not too far away because too much exertion at once wasn't – no, Joly, _focus_.

"Fine, then," Grantaire said offhandedly, and stumbled to his feet drunkenly. "Gimme a hand home, 'mi?" He had raised his voice, presumably so that anyone listening in would be sure to hear, so hopefully this was not going to be a literal hand ho– oh…dieu…no, it was. The man was heavy, and reeked, and was likely host to any number of mias- focus, focus, _focus_, if you don't see what he's up to, no one else will!

Eventually (it took too long, however long it actually was) they came to Grantaire's place. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't this. It was well-kept and full of…books? He supposed he'd forgotten that Grantaire had been a student as well. Grantaire dropped his act and straightened up, pulling out a couple of chairs. Joly sat gratefully, still unsure whether or not to dread what was in store.

"These are about twenty years old, but I don't think they've changed much," Grantaire explained, pulling out a set of maps – of _La Force?_ How…did he even want to know?

"Where did you get those?" he asked in spite of himself.

"Hmmm?" He was flipping through them, stirring up dust. Maurice repressed the urge to sneeze. He had been worried about the effects of dust on the respiratory system for some time, and – _focus_! "Interested, asked a policeman I played dominoes with. Thought they might come in handy some day."

…thought they might come in handy. What kind of person thinks they might have some occasion to find their way out of a prison? "…I see..."

"Of course we can't have any clue where they might be held, but from what I've heard, these cells are the cells for the minor criminals, you know – pickpockets and drunks and stuff." He waved vaguely at a group of cells marked out on the map.

"Uh…right…" Did he want to know how he knew this, either?

The tone of his voice must have been evident, because Grantaire gave him a very odd look. "…is something the matter?"

Yes. He'd been caught. "Oh, no…"

"Really? 'Cos you're giving me this really odd look."

"Er…" Nice job, Joly. Time to make something up – quickly. "You've got dust on your nose." It wasn't a lie. There really _was_ dust there – it was inevitable really, given the clouds of…you really are ridiculous, aren't you?

"Oh. Okay." He rubbed it off and Maurice self-consciously called himself back to attention. "So…they're probably in some of these cells. We just need to find out who turned them in, what the charges are, and what times the delivery men deliver linen and food to the prison."

"…right." He still wasn't entirely sure he wasn't dreaming this all up. Grantaire, not only running risks and taking initiatives, but making _plans_?

The drunk (although now that he thought about it, Grantaire seemed to be more sober than he'd been in weeks) was frowning at the papers before him, obviously deep in thought. That was unsettlingly new too… "I think we can do it, you know," he said suddenly.

"Can we really?" Joly asked. The other man grinned widely, an honest and rare grin that almost knocked him over with surprise.

"Yeah," he said, "I think so. The drunk and the doctor…we'll do it."

He was too stunned at the change in Grantaire, let alone by trying to comprehend what he was getting himself into, to answer right away. "…I don't know…really?"

"Well…" He paused for a moment and then said quietly, "We will if we work together…do you trust me, Maurice?"

Did he _trust_ him? What sort of question was that? Of course he didn't trust Grantaire – he barely felt he could trust himself. But there were Daniel and the others to think about, and if he was really honest with himself he knew that as crazy as the plan sounded, it was likely the only thing that was going to work. "I…think I can."

Apparently this answer was good enough, for Grantaire's face settled and became more resolved. "Okay. Good. Because we could very well be thrown in prison or die."

….wait, _what_. He could feel his eyes snap wide open and didn't care. "I thought you said we could do it."

Grantaire gave him a very odd look that made him flush a bit – not overexcitement, _not _a fever, just embarrassment. Just…right. "…Joly, for Dieu's sake. We're planning to break into La Force. If they catch us we should _hope_ they'll put us in prison. I believe we can do it. But there's no ignoring the danger."

Something was very definitely wrong now, because the thought had just flashed through his mind that Grantaire was sounding unnervingly like Enjolras. Whether he was right or not, the comparison itself was unsettling in the extreme. "Well…right," he said, breaking through his stunned silence. "I hope your plan's solid, though…"

"So do I. What I'm thinking is that if we disguise ourselves like delivery men, we should be able to get in the side entrance. There're a lot of sewer connections to the back of the prison, so one we're inside the building we should be able to reach the cells like that."

This…made sense. Maybe they could actually make this work. "Right…but how do we get them _out_?"

"In laundry bags," Grantaire said, as if it were the simplest and most obvious solution in the world. It wasn't to him, but maybe if he let him explain a bit more, it would be. He duly nodded along. "…okay…"

"Then we can just take them out in a wagon as long as they don't struggle," he explained.

Oh, all right. That made sense. "Right," Joly said, a bit more confidently. Grantaire's confidence and passion, which were quickly growing in a way he hadn't thought at all possible, were infectious. As he himself probably was, seeing as – _that's not important._

"We'll need somewhere to keep them until the hue and cry dies down," Grantaire said.

"I don't know if anyone's being watched or not…"

Grantaire sat back a bit and looked thoughtful. "Okay…look, the way I see it? They'll be too damn embarrassed to have been tricked out of their prisoners to come after us properly. If they do that, then they let every con and crook in town know that La Force can be broken into."

Almost in spite of himself, Maurice chuckled at the thought. "That's true enough, I suppose."

"So if we keep them hidden for a few days," Grantaire continued, "and meanwhile spread it about that 'Jolras is th' son of th' Earl... and y'know who De Courfeyrac's family is... then that will just take the steam out of them." He sat forward again, burying himself in the map of the Prefecture. "They…_we_…will have t'be a bit more careful…but…"

"…I think it'll work…" he found himself saying.

"So do I." Grantaire chewed the end of his pen absently. "How'd they get picked up, anyway? S'not like we walk around Paris throwing rocks at the gendarmes and screaming 'down with the bourgeoisie'…"

"Huh…aside from Dominic, you mean?" It was an amusing thought, but not so amusing when it came to imagining Bahorel having been thrown in prison for his usual excess of destructive zeal.

"_Apart_ from Bahorel. So who was it?"

Maurice shrugged a bit; he was quickly finding himself becoming more used to Grantaire – though not quite _comfortable_ with him – and consequently much less formal. "Nobody knows. Somebody just tipped them off – could have been the printer, could have been somebody eavesdropping when we weren't paying attention…"

Grantaire's smile was gone now. "Could have been someone closer, too. A friend, a lover…a whore not tipped enough cash…anyone."

Maurice bit his lip. Awful habit, but it was just a nervous habit and he was barely aware of it now. "Anyone at all, really."

Grantaire frowned a little. "It wasn't me."

"I didn't say that..." Had he said that? No, he didn't think so…he hoped not. For the first time it seemed appropriate to use Grantaire's name, but…he had no idea what to call him. They didn't _talk_. And everything was confusing. It seemed rather silly to stick to surnames when here they were planning to break into _La Force_, for Dieu's sake, and he was fairly sure Grantaire had already called him Maurice…but it just didn't seem right using…well…whatever Grantaire's first name was. He didn't think he'd ever learned it, and if he had he'd definitely since forgotten it.

"I know," Grantaire said. "I just wanted to be clear, Joly." Maurice nodded, and Grantaire nodded back solemnly. "So. If it could be anyone…we need to be careful who knows we did this."

"Right," he said. Made perfect sense, but it did limit the number of places to safely hide seven restless young revolutionaries – not counting themselves. "Where _are_ we keeping them?"

"Well…there's a place not far from where I work, an old school near the church," Grantaire said thoughtfully. Joly almost stopped listening right there – he didn't know Grantaire worked at _anything_. But he had to pay attention and think critically. This was the planning part. It was important. Now _focus_. "It's only half being used, the rest is too old for the children to occupy. I think we could hide them there and no one be the wiser."

All right. Hiding place taken care of. "And…we still have to find a wagon and a way to disguise ourselves. Right?"

"That's right." Grantaire seemed to hesitate for a moment and Maurice had the sudden lurching feeling in his stomach – _not_ cholera, not influenza, just an emotion, now focus – that he wasn't going to like what Grantaire was about to say. "Joly, I think we're going to have to be very good at those disguises. I don't think we should let even _them_ know who we are."

He'd been right. He didn't like this. "…you really think they'll _trust_ us?"

"We'll be getting them out of _La Force_. Of course they will."

"I don't know…"

Grantaire sighed. "Look, if you were in a cell in La Force, and where it's cold and slimy and they're threatening to bring in your family and you know your father is never going to talk to you again... and someone opens the door and tells you they're going to get you out - would you follow them?"

He made a point. Kind of. But he could think of so many things wrong with this idea. "Well…_I_ would," Maurice said. "But can't you just see Enjolras insisting on staying put for the good of the people, or something like that?"

"Dieu…he would," Grantaire admitted.

"And you know Feuilly is going to think it's some kind of trap perpetrated by the tyrannical..." He tried to snatch at words the rather hotheaded, eternally suspicious fanmaker might use but couldn't think of any. "Oh, you get the picture."

Grantaire grimaced a bit, which Joly took to be agreement. Unfortunately, he was wrong. "Possibly. In which case we can argue with them. I am relatively sure I can convince 'Jolras that staying in prison does nothing for the people and that he needs to be out here furthering the cause, etc. etc. etc. and so forth... and as for Feu - well, once the others are coming he'll want to come just to keep them safe."

"Well, that's true." …wait, wait, wait, had _Grantaire_ just said he was going to convince _Enjolras_ of something? Too late, he'd agreed…oh Dieu…

"At the very least, we can try," Grantaire said firmly.

That was true. He nodded. "We can try."

An awkward look of dawning realization came over Grantaire's face. "…um. Joly, I didn't mean to take charge like that."

Oh. Right. Normally something would _really_ have had to be wrong for him to be taking direction from _Grantaire_ – but he supposed this qualified as a case where something was really, horribly wrong. "…oh…" he said, rather awkwardly as well, "It's all right."

"Well, okay," Grantaire said, still looking a bit uncomfortable. "I don't want you to think I'm trying to be Apollo, or anything."

"No, it's fine," he said. If Grantaire's plans were what worked then he didn't mind following Grantaire's plans. He just needed a plan, _period_.

Grantaire rolled up the maps and shoved them into his pocket. "All right, then. We need to get some disguises."

Maurice stood up with him. "What're we disguised as, again?"

"Delivery men," the sober drunk said. "Who wear _caps_, and vests, and shirts and trousers…that need to look worn."

"Right…where are we going to _get_ that?"

Grantaire made a vague motion with one of his hands. It was almost elegant, if it hadn't been so ill-defined. "Acting buddies and drinking buddies. One nice thing being a drunk is ev'ryone owes me money."

"Ah…"

Grantaire grinned that unsettling rare grin again – just a little one. "Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure _you_ owe me money."

Oh, dieu, he wasn't joking, was he? He didn't remember at all whether he'd borrowed any… "…do I really?" he said, a little guiltily.

"Yes," Grantaire said. "I have a good memory for debts. It comes in handy. Ev'ryone always thinks I'm too drunk to remember."

Well, he was right about that…Maurice felt a little guiltier. "Oh. I…suppose that makes sense."

Grantaire shrugged it off. "Come on. We'll get the clothes first, and then there's a man I know who does a bit of carting who can lend us a team and wagon and a few sacks. We'll need some linen, though. Where can we get linen?"

It was obviously a rhetorical question, and Joly did not bother to answer it. In any case, he was too busy making sure he didn't leave his hat behind as Grantaire swept out the door in the kind of energetic fit he'd thought impossible for the man. What else was he going to going to learn today? Did he even want to know?


	3. Born With The Gift Of Laughter

Born With The Gift of Laughter….

Old Gorot had no qualms about lending Grantaire his wagon and horses for a day or two, naturally. It had been only a month ago that Grantaire had, himself, managed to extricate the cantankerous old fool from a legal issue - luckily without garnering the _polite_ attentions of the mouchards. Strangely, this appeared to have made Gorot fond enough of his company that he'd even stop smoking the putain pipe for five minutes if Grantaire happened by, to nod and grunt hello.

Progress.

Afterwards, it was a simple matter of looking up Lucien Venet and reminding him in gentle and pleasant terms that he'd lost over 100 sous in their last card game and a small matter of clean linen might go a long way towards wiping his memory of this fact. Joly appeared to be content to go along with both these transactions, something which certainly made things easier. Heaven only knew _why_ the nervous medical student found him so... _followable_ all of a sudden.

It was a short walk from there to the Theatre Commede Dell'art. He walked quickly, not wanting to waste any more time than they had to. Sooner or later one of them was going to realize what a ridiculous notion the whole damn thing was and when that moment came the whole thing would collapse. Like the pretty little houses of cards stacked one on top of the other.

Perceval had always been rather good at those. He banged on the door, hoping that Jean was in and Mme Pott was not. She had the infuriating habit of criticizing his sideburns to minute detail, forcing gallons of soup on him, and ordering him to 'find a nice girl and settle down'. Ridiculous really. Considering Mme. Potts was indeed, as male as was humanly possible to be. In explanation, he nodded to the shabby, cracked door and glanced at Joly. "These are my acting friends."

Joly had done him the favour of ceasing to look astonished every time he said the word 'friend' or 'job', and simply nodded. "Right."

The door opened and Columbine's bright head appeared. "_Alec!_ About time you showed up! Who's your friend there?**" **Her eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a tipsy butterfly, and Grantaire smirked. Dieu. They got longer every time he saw her.

"Mon belle, this is a brave ami of mine, Maurice. Maurice, le belle of the stage, Lisette." Easier to explain their relationship as 'friends'. It was, after all, a little _longwinded _to say 'one of the men I hang around with a lot and specifically one of the ones who doesn't actively dislike me and never drinks with me'.

"Pleasure, mam'selle," Joly blinked. Grantaire felt a twinge of sympathy. Columbine was always rather hard to handle first thing in the morning... afternoon... evening... when you'd had a few drinks...

"Hey!" one of the triplets appeared behind Columbine, beaming all over his freckled face. "it's our Alec! You here to play Scaramouche again, sot?" Tomas, obviously.

"Don't call him a sot, fool!" More protective of _others_, Andre.

"Don't call him a fool, madman!" more protective of his brother. Louis. Grantaire swallowed a grin and nodded at three ruffled necks, chapeau-ed heads and grinning faces.

"Can I come in, or are you going to keep us out here all day?"

They probably _would_ have kept him outside all day for their own amusement, little _connards_, but Papa Punchinello boomed from inside, "What're you all doing? Let him in!" His best voice, that one. Good timbre, good projection, and a touch of Rhodomont should the unwary feel tempted to flout him.

Louis grinned and tumbled out of the way. "Oui, papa! Oui, papa! Whatever Punchinello says!" Like puppets, the three of them. Grantaire had always wanted to know how they did it so fluidly. Andre followed his brother, and the cheeky young Tomas skipped out of the way like a cricket escaping the heat of a match. Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire saw a grin trying to force its way onto Joly's face, and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him inside.

"...they really _are_ this mad all the time." In fact they _were_. He himself had been Scaramouche... _Scaramouche_... man of the masks and cynicism. Never the lover, never the fool, always the mystery, the watcher, the dealer of deals and maker of matches. Never a friend or a trusted companion, but sly wily Scaramouche who solves the world's troubles and goes on his way.

Columbine, entranced at having a new victim, was batting her eyelashes so fast that there was distinct danger her eyes might fall out. Tomas had sidled up next to her, and Grantaire eyed the two of them for a minute through the kindly cynicism of Scaramouche. Columbine and Pierot. Tragic and eternal.

"Ah Columbine," Tomas whispered softly, but not soft enough for the ears of Scaramouche. "Not a word for your Pierot?"

"I'm busy," the temptress replied, a whirl of bright hair, bright skirts and beautiful eyes. "Take that instead." And she kissed the air above his cheek.

You're lost, Tomas, Grantaire thought rather sadly. You're lost and she'll have the heart out of your chest and destroy it. The boy snatched the kiss out of the air and pressed it against his chest, standing on his head to hide the seriousness in his eyes. Scaramouche faded, and a cynical drunkard shook his head at the idea of love and turned his eyes on the Captain of the troupe.

"Allo there, Punchinello."

"Scaramouche," that deep warm voice washed over him. "Where have you been?"

"About and around," he said airily. "You'd moved on last time I was here. heard you were back." Not quite complete truth, but Grantaire had found this was expected of him. Both as a drunkard and as Scaramouche.

"Just dropping by then?" Punchinello gave his best fatherly nod, and Grantaire knew there was another play in the wings who would be better suited for the public with a strong Scaramouche.

"Need a favour," he said bluntly.

"That's nothing new with you, Alec. Always needing something."

Grantaire glared a little at Tomas. The boy would never quite forgive him for being more fascinating to Columbine. The child was teasing, of course. Young, pretty, and in love with her own charms. And in love with hearing her own charms praised by a man who knew how to speak of Eros and Cupid and love. "Like a piece of your hide, Pierrot?" It was _improvisation_ boy. Get over it.

Joly appeared to be having trouble not giggling himself silly over the whole thing.

Wisely, young Tomas had learned his lesson from the few times his brothers and himself had presumed Scaramouche was too old and too soused to be able to retaliate, and gave a deep bow. "Far be it from Pierot to challenge the skill of Scaramouche."

Hah. Clever boy. He waved a hand in one of his more practiced flourishes. "Shoo. Fetch me raiment, for I would be disguised in the manner of a common labourer." The boys were in charge of wardrobe when Mother wasn't around. Columbine was always hair and macquillage. And a fine job she did of it too.

At the moment she was surveying him with some petulance, a pout on the pretty little teasing lips. "It hardly befits you!"

Charming as always. He swooped down on her and kissed her on the forehead "...thank you. Still, I need to be disguised, and I need your touch with the grease-paint, my beauty. Even my mother shouldn't be able to recognise me."

At that the three pierots surrounded him like so many black and white crows.** "**What are you up to?"

Dieu, they were unnerving when they chorused.** "**Scaramouche does not tell. Make the magic happen. I must talk with Punchinello." He affected a confidence he was far from feeling. Truth be told, this role of leader and gambler, master of the plan and instigator of the rescue was invigorating - but terrifying. Too much responsibility all around. The pierots seemed more impressed than he was himself, and hurried to do his bidding, Columbine also disappeared in a whirl of skirts to fetch her wares. "Pardon for the intrusion, of course," he said, looking back at Punchinello.

"None needed." The older man was eying Joly in his ruminative searching way. Fitting him for parts, obviously. This struck Grantaire as amusing, picturing Joly on stage for a hilarious moment.

"A friend," he said in a drawl, that unfamiliar word again. "Be a good Harlequin, I think. Has the face for it." Whether that was inspired by the triangle with Pierot and Columbine, or sheer whimsy, Grantaire didn't know or care. He sat down cross-legged at the feet of the theatre. "I'm going to break into a prison."

Joly's eyes nearly removed themselves from his skull and rolled along the floor.

"For a good cause, naturally," Jean said with a slight eyebrow raise. Nothing surprised Punchinello.

"Of course," he waved a hand. "Friends of mine. The disguise has to be good. You're always the best, but this has to be _really_ good."

Jean nodded. "I'll make sure it's done right. For both of you, I assume?"

"Oui. Linen carters."

"You've really thought this out, Scaramouche." It was that look Punchinello always gave his players when they did something particularly fine with their improvisations.

"You know me. I plan." I plan to be drunk before I'm drunk. I plan when to rail and when to hold my peace. I plan my work and I plan my rest. I plan my life to the smallest jot. No surprises for Scaramouche. None for Grantaire.

The triplets returned with armsful of clothes and began to divest him of his usual shirt, vest, and trousers. There was no room for bashfulness in the theatre. Joly looked scandalised. "...relax, Joly," he said as calmly as he could manage. "You'll get your clothes back." And let's both pretend that's why you're as red as a revolutionary banner.

Tomas and Andre worked on his costume while Louis worked on Joly. The poor lamb looked as though he feared the wolves would rend his tender wool and leave him naked and alone in haunted fields. However, when all was done, they both looked the part to perfection. Dusty. Dirty. Scruffy carters. Even around his embarrassment, Joly looked impressed.

"That's _great_," Grantaire looked down at himself and then deliberately inspected Joly. " ...Damn, Joly. No one would recognize you."

As if to prove him wrong in the cruelest and most ironic way possible, Joly's only answer was his signature sneeze.

"Until..." he said quietly. "You do that."

"Soddy," the homme sounded honestly stuffed up. Maybe it was the dust. Maybe it was a plague that imagination would hail down on their heads.

"Please..." he tried to sound as amicable as possible. After all, their current partnership was new, tentative, and delicate. **"**Don't sneeze when we're sneaking in, all right?"

"I'll try. Really."

That would have to do. "Thanks," he beckoned to Columbine. "Make me dangerous, mysterious, common and crafty, Columbine."

"Nothing to it, Scaramouche." She was all professionalism when it came to her powders and creams. The brush was gentle across his face. Brown for the dirt of a laboring man. White for contours to change his face. A bit here, a bit there, a new nose, stubble, a beard... She moved on to Joly, who's nose twitched throughout the whole operation.

"You look _common_, Joly." Grantaire said in approval.

"I'm good, aren't I?" Columbine grinned at him, for once not flirting or flouncing, and patted Joly on the head, showing off her skills.

"You are, as always, magnificent." He turned and looked to the man who would make the final decision. "Well, Punchinello, do we have your approval?"

The intense gaze travelled over both of them, more skilled at picking out flaws in a disguise than any policeman. Finally he nodded. "You do. And my blessing."

A blessing without a request for recompense. Theatre was generosity itself. Grantaire found himself smiling. and turned it into a bow. "Merci again. I don't plan on this becoming a habit."

Tomas stood on his head and looked up at him, the dark eyes slightly mocking, slightly worried. A true Pierot. "...what are you up to, Scaramouche?"

Worried? For me? Now now, Pierot. Keep your eyes on Columbine. There lies the key to your destiny. "Ask me no questions," he replied with a frown. "and I'll tell you no lies, Pierot."

All three of them stuck out their tongues, and Papa Punchinello shook his head with a smile. Close enough to family, the lot of them. So close that it drove him away more often than it drew him in.

He waved and slouched out of the theatre to his cart, hands deep in his pockets and mind filled with the idea of laundry and linen. So long as he was in character, the role would convince all. Joly drifted after him, doing a passable immitation, and settled himself rather awkwardly in the passenger seat of the cart.

"You want to drive?" Grantaire held out the reins. Driving was not his favorite task. Too reminiscent of horses, prisons, dragging carts... memories.

Unfortunately, it did not appear to by Joly's idea of fun either. "Er... no, you can." He looked as though Grantaire had offered him a large bug and suggested he eat it.

With a shrug, Grantaire flicked the reins and headed the cart towards the prison. He had no idea whether Joly trusted him or was simply playing along because he was out of options. they might succeed or they might die trying. Whatever the outcome, he would be Scaramouche today, and not the drunkard. He would fix what he could and go on his way and the world would be none the wiser.

With a jaunty tip to his hat, Grantaire whistled a tune and hurried the horses. Mind full of prisons and plans and disguises and the sly wily thoughts of Capitan Scaramouche.


	4. Each Man Must Do What He Must

They were…they were actually _doing_ this. It was all Joly could do to keep his breathing under control. All right. Act innocent. Just act innocent. _You don't see anything_…and now they were actually at the gate. Grantaire was making some innocuous, forgettable small talk, some excuse about the usual man…dieu, if he were to show up they'd be in trouble for sure…but he couldn't worry about that – couldn't! Just stay calm. Soon enough it'll all be through with. And now they were through the gates. He found himself thinking 'safe' and laughed a little on the inside. The most dangerous part was still coming…

He was startled, so startled he almost jumped, but he couldn't jump, he had to stay calm…oh yes, startled. Startled by Grantaire saying something very quietly. "Well, that's the start," was what he said. He just nodded, and tried as hard as he could to make his heart slow down before something dreadful happened to it.

And then Grantaire jumped down. Of course, they had to unload the clean things they'd brought. Right. Just do whatever he does…

"Hot day for it, homme," Grantaire said, easily, almost lazily.

It was like acting. It _was_ acting. And he, Joly, could not act. Deep breath. You're not yourself anymore…you're Harlequin.

He liked the idea.

"Yep," he answered, trying not to sound as insufferably squeaky as he knew he usually did.

"That missus of yours let you back in the bedroom yet?"

"Nah…things keep going like this, don't know what 'm going t'do." Just…copy Grantaire's tone. Er…Scaramouche's tone. And don't blush. _Don't!_

"Women. 'S why _I_ never married. Take 'em hard and leave 'em weeping, that's what I say."

He shook his head. It had the double effect of clearing it a bit. "Heartless, that."

"Good sense, more like." Grantaire…no, he didn't seem to be Grantaire any longer. It wasn't even that he looked different. He was _acting_ differently. _Scaramouche_, then, unloaded the last sack of clean linen and began to pick up the empty sacks they were going to use. He caught himself scrambling to help and forced himself to slow his pace. Just…act…naturally. They finished collecting the bags and he followed Scaramouche's lead, sidling along towards the door they needed to take, and succeeded in not squeaking when he was roughly pulled aside into a corridor. _Harlequin_ didn't squeak at inopportune times.

"Right, now we just need to pin down where they are," the other man said, suddenly in his normal voice, though at a low level. It almost wasn't worth trying to keep track. He was just going to mentally call him Scaramouche until they were out of this.

"I have no idea where they might be," he admitted.

This provoked an face-splitting grin. "What, you think _I_ do?"

"…no…well, you seem to know everything else," he said, in a rather pitiful attempt to defend himself. It had a pronounced effect on Scaramouche, who looked mildly confused.

"…really now? Well. Huh." For a moment he seemed lost for words, then recovered himself. "They should be somewhere along this section of the prison, but we're going to have to find the cell by trial and error."

"They might not all be in the same cell…" he pointed out.

"True!" Scaramouche – though he was really Grantaire now, and it was making him feel more and more like Joly by the second, which was _not_ good – said, with that same vague not-quite-elegant gesture. "I'd put it at 'Jolras and 'Ferre in single cells, Bahorel in solitary, and the rest together."

He grinned at the thought. "Oh, Dom in solitary for sure."

Scaramouche/Grantaire/this was really getting confusing and quite pointless grinned back. "Perhaps we should get him first, the solitary cells _are_ closer."

"Good plan."

"This way." He began to edge along the corridor and Maurice followed, heartbeat growing thicker and louder again. Come on, now, really!

Luckily, Scaramouche was doing all of the work, flicking back the window at each cell he passed and briefly apologizing to each of their inmates. "Sorry…sorry, just looking for a friend…" It seemed like it was taking absolutely forever. What if they were to be caught? What if Dominic wasn't in here and they had wasted their precious time for nothing? What if…

"…bloody hell?" broke in on his thoughts from one of the cells further down. Scaramouche stopped where he stood.

"…Joly…" he said quietly, "that sound like Bahorel to you?"

Wait, now he was _Joly_? He couldn't be Joly. Joly wasn't good for this kind of thing. He couldn't focus, and he _had_ to focus. _Focus_… "Yeah…it does."

Scara…Grantaire…whoever…looked a bit uncertain. But resolute at the same time. Rather how he himself felt. "Right. I suppose here is where we find out if we can actually pull this off."

He just gave a nervous nod and watched, creeping up a little, as the other man slipped up to the cell in question and called in, voice disguised. "Hello in there."

"Go to hell," its inhabitant drawled.

Grantaire snorted and turned back to him. "_Definitely_ Bahorel." He produced something…fiddly looking…oh. Lock-picking tools, of course. He opened the door with an unsettling ease – again, did he even want to know where he'd learned that? Or what other use he'd put it to?

None of which changed the fact that the door was open. Scaramouche – he was definitely Scaramouche – leaned against the doorframe, looking into the cell. "You want out?"

"The hell I d-…" came from within.

Bahorel must have eventually given some agreement, though, because Scaramouche nodded to him. "Well _fine_. Follow Papa Scaramouche. It's going to be a strange thing, but we rather thought a sack might do the job of hiding your frame."

"All…what?" He could hear the incredulity in Bahorel's voice and could well imagine the face he was making.

Scaramouche produced one of the sacks and held it up for Bahorel to see. "There's a cart. There's a laundryman, my good self, and there are seven sacks. However, I will enlist you, if you permit, to help with the others. We can't carry _seven_ of you all the way to the door."

He almost laughed aloud at the thought of himself trying to lift Dominic at all; hell, Dominic could probably lift and carry _him_ under one arm if he wanted to. Of course there would be all kinds of comments made about the habit of breakfasting on bricks being bad for the stomach, but that was Dom for you.

Ignoring Bahorel's unusually stunned look, Scaramouche made that not-quite-elegant gesture again – was it a nervous tic? He himself had several, but the idea of either Grantaire or Scaramouche having any kind of nervous habits, or even being nervous, was near-impossible to fathom – and beckoned him out of the cell. "Come along. As long as we keep to the side-corridors our chances of discovery are quite small." With that he simply turned and began sauntering along the corridor – banging on doors breezily as he went – so that Bahorel had no choice but to emerge and follow, looking as if the Devil himself had come to spring him. Maurice couldn't blame him.

When they had all caught up with each other, Scaramouche stopped them and handed over the sacks to a still-bemused Bahorel. "Right. It is my belief that most of your friends are in the back cells, possibly excepting the leader and his second. The main cells are _this_ way. The single cells are further on. Come along."

"You sure know the prison system," Dominic said, bundling up the sacks without protest.

"I have _maps_," replied his savior airily, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and led them onwards. The fact that Bahorel hadn't recognized either of them was both amusing and gave Maurice a snatch of hope. He _needed_ it.

The little group crept uneasily through the darkness – well, he and Dominic were uneasy; Scaramouche seemed as blithe as if he were walking down the street – until they reached what must be the middle cells. "…This is going to be a bit more tricky," Scaramouche said quietly, peering around the corner. "There's a lot of cells, and a few guards."

"Well, _hell_, if they see _me_…" Bahorel said in an undertone.

"Simple. They won't. Stay here, in a sack." The look on Dom's face was so perfect it was a real struggle not to laugh. "Hmm…" Scaramouche relieved Bahorel of most of the sacks he was carrying. "Right. You come with me, Harlequin. If you'll be so kind as to dump this over the ground when I give the word…" He passed the sacks along. "And then hold the sack up to mask me."

He, Maurice, was not very sure about this, especially as he had just taken a peek out at the guard in the hall and now felt properly intimidated (which was, he was sure, part of the point of keeping a guard there.) But being Harlequin, he didn't have much choice but to go along with it. Everything depended on doing this _right_. Come on, come _on_,you can do this…or Harlequin can, anyway…he forced his heart out of his throat and pried his feet loose from the floor so he could follow Scaramouche around the corner.

He could only presume the other man was casually glancing into cells as they passed them, as he kept his head well down until he heard the whisper, "All right, drop it." He did so gladly, and in a hopeless heap that would have done Daniel proud. Now he had always wondered what having an arthritic back would feel like…

Masked by his efforts (he was most certainly _not_ melodramatic, no matter what some people might say, but if he had been – well, this is what it would have looked like) to retrieve the spilled linen, Scaramouche continued to mess with the lock until it clicked free. "Right," he said under his voice, "you're going to have to get them out. I'll distract that idiot over there…just take them back to where Bahorel is." And just like that he had slipped away and was striding up to the guard, who luckily was standing far enough down the hall to have a poor view in any case. He…_Harlequin_…totally unrecognizable…not a man they knew…not a wanted man at all, no…waited until they began to talk (something about an offer of liquor) before he slid the door open just enough for his slender width and slipped inside.

A quick glance was enough to reassure him that these were indeed his friends. Luc in the corner – probably pining for Dom – Prouvaire sprawled on the one bench – in the act of messing with his hair ribbons – Feuilly with his back braced against the wall – about to bring up some famous Polish rebel's incarceration, no doubt, really sometimes he was as bad as Combeferre – and in the other corner…Daniel. His stomach twitched. Fooling Dom and the guards was one thing and fooling _Daniel_ was another. But he couldn't waste time. Besides, wasting time was one thing _he_ was known to- _just get on with it!_

Self-consciously, he lowered his voice, in tone to avoid being heard and in pitch because Harlequin sounded like he had actually got through pubescence. "You fellows want out of here, don't you?"

_Well_. It was as if he'd suddenly grown a third head, or a second nose. He almost reached up and touched his nose at the thought and barely stopped himself.

"Who the _hell_ are you?" Feuilly asked.

"I second that!" Lucien said.

"Thirds!" Prouvaire said, in what he was sure was the bravest tone the poet could muster.

"That doesn't matter," he said, trying not to lose his intensity. "You all have one chance to get out of here, and it's us."

Lucien looked at Feuilly. "Sounds good to me." Sometimes he thought _everything_ sounded good to Lucien.

Evidently Feuilly agreed because his eyes narrowed a bit. "It could be a trap."

"Dios, Feu…what's the worst they could do, throw us in prison?" Lucien laughed.

"Touche," came back the reluctant grumble.

"I think we should go," Prouvaire said timidly, still fidgeting with those precious ribbons –

But now Daniel was walking over. _Merde_. Did he suspect anything? The makeup was awfully thick but… "…you others should go first," Daniel said, continuing to move towards him. "I'll probably fall over and alert the cognes."

"Come on then," he said, trying not to let his dry mouth get to him _don't recognize me don't recognize me merde, merde, merde don't recognize me_ "Time's running out fast."

Thankfully, Lucien took the lead. "Come _on_ amis," he said, hurrying out and slipping down the hall in the direction indicated. Prouvaire and Feuilly followed him – Feuilly giving him one last critical look as he passed. How_ was_ it possible that one man could simultaneously be so idealistic and so distrustful? And Daniel left without comment. Thank _Dieu_ for that.

He himself slipped out behind them and shut the door as quietly as he could, making brief eye contact with Scaramouche. As he chased Daniel around the corner he heard Scaramouche making his excuses to the guard. The first part of their foolish, crazy, unthinkable, ridiculous plan had almost been pulled off…


	5. Someone Has To Face The Valley

A/N: For the illustrations of each chapter, check out http : / / technicolor - werewolf . deviantart . c o m

Bestest best new friend now mildly soused, it was easy to slip away down the hall after young Harlequin - better perhaps not even to think of him as Joly until this was over - and the rest of their crew. All out, all amenable, all safe. Dieu only knew how they were doing this. "...nicely done, Harlequin." And it was, too. Charm of the tattered and wandering rogue, the multicoloured scoundrel and black-faced magician was what it would have taken to talk this lot into following someone they didn't know anywhere. Courfeyrac, bless him, looking just about as suspicious as Feuilly - and that, at the moment, was saying something. L'aigle over in the corner, hopefully Harlequin didn't lose all sense of proportion now his twin was around, and there was th' P'tite Jehan, little poet and boxer with his hair ribbons. And, of course, Bahorel.

Nice to get Bahorel out. Bahorel was a decent chap. Always had time for drunkards.

"All right," Harlequin was saying. "This is going to sound crazy but...you have to hide in the sacks until we get back with the other two." He could have sounded a little more confident, but they had to take progress where they could get it.

The reactions were interesting, almost to a hilarious extreme. Courfeyrac just laughed, while the poet patted his hair and looked as though they had suggested he take dinner with Lucifer, a look Feuilly managed to match, only with more skepticism and less righteous fury. L'aigle, rather surprisingly, just started to crawl into a sack. Nice cove. Pity about the hair.

"...evening all. We need to leave you here as we pick up the other two." He grinned at Harlequin for good measure. Gay, Scaramouche, gay. Harlequin gave a rather good smug look to the students as if to say 'well, what did I tell you?'

"I say again," Courfeyrac and his best drawl. "who the _hell_ are you?"

Bahorel chimed in with a laugh and a grin that looked like it would split his face. Must've been lonely for him in the cell all alone. Never come between th' Centre and th' Fists. "I'm not though, right? Because I don't think I would fit."

"Not just yet," he blithely ignored the question as to his identity. Cheek and nonsense, Courfeyrac. Never demand answers from Scaramouche.

"I do need you to help us move the bags once they're full. But I did provide a particularly large bag for your good self."

"Ah good."

Now, young man. Now, listen to Papa Scaramouche, listen well because Papa Scaramouche hates to repeat himself. His raised a hand and jabbed Courfeyrac in the chest. "Into a bag, young m'sieur!"

Perhaps it was the disguise, for Courfeyrac only afforded him with the best furious Lothario frown he could muster and stepped into the sack. He seemed to be attempting to look uncomfortable, but all he succeeded in was looking like a graceful Mercutio in the throes of his death scene.

Feuilly gave the poet a little nudge and one by one they all got into sacks except Bahorel, who stepped back into the shadows and looked like Herakles waiting for Hera to pop into the corridor. "Right," he gave everyone a nod to show that this was, indeed, how the evening was meant to progress. "Harlequin, two more I believe." For good measure, he put a few bits of linen in the mouth of each sack. Four bags of men, one in a corridor, and his aces hidden in the prison. Who will win this hand of fate? "Just stay in the shadows, giant. We'll be back soon."

Perhaps Bahorel nodded, perhaps he didn't. Scaramouche didn't care. Scaramouche couldn't care for these men, or everyone was lost. Be Scaramouche, Perceval. Don't be the drunkard. Don't be the fool. Be wily and sly as a fox.

He walked down the hall in Scaramouche's shoes, and Harlequin followed and the world was patchwork and brilliant and gold.

Closer to the back of the twisty prison were the single cells for the more important hommes. He'd never been in these, of course. His places had been solitary, or rather _Grantaire's_ had. Scaramouche was too clever to be caught. Solitary cages, kennels, the hole in the ground, once. Grantaire was a fool, a young fool. He had learned, like all young fools. But this reminded Grantaire of long hard days and hard lean men and how to cant a tune and why th' mouchards ate bread while the rest ate rocks. Scaramouche felt a little pity for Grantaire.

"Right... I figure one of the back cells, right? Only problem is which one."

It was a question for his Harlequin, and Harlequin answered with practical ease. "I suppose we'll have to look in each one until we find them."

Splendid child. Wonderful child. Scaramouche touched his nose and sighed. "It's a good thing we don't actually have to collect the laundry. This is taking too long." It was. Scaramouche was restless and ready to wander. Harlequin made no reply, so they walked to the back of the prison and began to patrol up and down, grotesque replicas of guards. Each cell was a picture with a player playing his part, asleep or surly or uncaring. Each cell was the wrong actor, and the wrong play.

Until there was Eugene Combeferre, cross-legged and impeccable on the prison bed, muttering in Latin and tracing a finger over the etchings on the wall. Scaramouche felt pleased and made a noise at the back of his throat. The lieutenant was found. He leant easily against the wall outside the cell and made a little flourish. "...Hello there. M'gonna just open the door and then we'll be taking a little walk out of here."

In typical Combeferre fashion, the man merely looked up and gave a lazy, prosaic blink. "... really, now."

Really. Really with winks and blown kisses to the ladies. He whistled a bar or two of something light and Italian, and began to twist... push in, little jiggle, pull the small one to the left, the large bit to the right and POP. Clang. Whoosh. The door opens and I am both Scheherazade and Ali Baba.

The doctor and lieutenant simply watched until the door was open and then asked, "Where are we going?" As though this was a school excursion and he the pretty Schoolmarm.

Scaramouche whistled and swung on the door. "Out."

And that was that. The good man, good doctor, fine fellow, picked up his jacket, folded it, and came out of his cell. "Hmm." Scaramouche felt disected by the gaze. Like he was being analysed and pulled apart and found wanting.

"Hey... Scaramouche. Over here!"

Harlequin. He looked over and found his able second gesturing at a cell further down. Ah. The Captain. And with that, Scaramouche had disappeared and there was only Grantaire the sot, the Winecask who was good for nothing. He swallowed nerves and hurried to the cell, peering in to see light and goodness and the sun sitting in the cell wrapped in thought, and angel seeing God . "Ah... right." Grantaire's voice and Grantaire's face. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder. "Hey, M'sieur!"

"...Enjolras." The good doctor, behind them. But all Scara... Gran... all _he_ was interested in was the man in the cell. The bright, youthful, cool man with his eyes on the heavens and his thoughts... well. Not even Scaramouche could guess.

Enjolras continued to gaze at the mysteries of the world, unconscious and unheeding, and _Grantaire_ laughed, and murmured to himself. "Typical." Another lock, thankfully the last, and he called over his shoulder to the man he knew was there and willing. "Harlequin, try to wake him up, eh?"

In the end neither the fox nor the clown were needed, as the Doctor stepped forwards. "Enjolras, are you all right?"

"Hmmmmm?"

The Angel's attention was caught, and not a moment too soon. Scaramouche regained himself and took the stage once more, swinging open the door and smiling irony at the occupant. "...would you care to accompany us, M. Enjolras?"

"It _appears_ we are being rescued," the Doctor said calmly.

"To what destination, may I ask?" He had the dignity of a saint, and for once was not turning the scorching cold of those blue eyes on the worm and winecask that was the poor Man Grantaire.

Scaramouche was only slightly awed, as Scaramouche had never believed in angels. "Out of prison."

"All right then." In a smooth movement, he rose and swept out of the cell. "In response to your question, Combeferre - quite all right, thank you."

"That's good," the doctor fell into step at his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "A rather unusual experience, in all."

For a moment, the man Grantaire glanced at the man Joly and exchanged with him an incredulous look. Of all the Amis, Combeferre and Enjolras were, perhaps, the most intelligent - and therefore the most likely to see through a layer or two of greasepaint and some borrowed clothes. But apprently... apparently they had not.

Scaramouche shrugged and smiled and took the lead, trailing through the coridors until they were in front of four sacks and a shadow in the darkness. No one had spoken, Enjolras appearing to be grappling with some high ideal while Combeferre walked beside him and steadied him when it appeared that his abstraction was enough to drive him into a wall instead of around the bend.

"Hello there, you two." Bahorel stepped out of the shadows with perfect dramatic timing. Should go on stage, ami. "Or you four, I suppose."

"Hello," Combeferre offered a smile. "You out too, then."

The man was a bundle of self-control and understatement. Well, fine and good. Scaramouche allowed that perhaps a little cheerful greeting was in order. However, they had spent more time in this building than Scaramouche liked. "All right. I will be requiring you two gentlemen to get into a sack each, please." His voice held an edginess, perhaps due to Scaramouche's strain, perhaps because the Man Grantaire could not fathom how to give a command to the angel.

"All right," Enjolras said, and stepped into the sack held by Scaramouche with more grace than should have been possible. The doctor entered a sack unaided, looking both interested and curious, but nothing more. "Right..." Scaramouche secured the sacks carefully. "Everyone listening?"

Each sack murmured general assent, an odd and curious sight, and an even more odd and curious sound.

"M. Bahorel," he nodded to that paragon, "is going to assist in carrying you all to the corridor near the cart we are going to use to get you out of here. It may be a little bumpy. We apologise in advance for any bruises."

Bahorel nodded back, and Scaramouche took a breath. Here was where they lived or died, here was where history was made or lost. This was the moment Scaramouche lived for. "Right. M. Bahorel, if you would take M. Enjolras. Harlequin, I'll help you with M. Combeferre."

They worked in silence, carefully ferrying sacks through the corridors until they were laid like so many body-sacks in fron of the entrance to the main courtyard. Scaramouche was covered in sweat. His arms ached and his chest hurt and his back was sore, but what was this to Scaramouche? Nothing. Not until the task was done. He lowered his voice carefully. "Right, M. Bahorel, get in a bag. We'll take it from here."

Bahorel crawled into the last sack, murmuring under his breath, "I sure as hell hope you two know what you're doing."

Not at all, sweet child, Scaramouche thought. We hope, we guess, we dream. We cannot know. This has never been done before. Harlequin was silent, and there was worry on what should have been a cheerful black face.

"We'll need to take a bag each," Scaramouche said, and picked up the closest with a grunt that was not feigned. He was now Lou, the Carter of Fabric once more, Scaramouche playing another part in his wide repertoire. Lou watched in slight amusement as his partner, Jourdaine, picked up the smallest of the bags. He'd gone for the largest. Better to get it done and be done with it. He lugged it to the cart, muttering under his breath about large men and large eating habits and what bricks had been stuffed into the prison breakfasts, before nodding to the guards and going back for the next.

The bags looked a bit lumpy. But not... fatally so. He'd padded each carefully with linen so that they would not seem to be carrying dead bodies to the graveyards of Paris instead of sacks of linen. It worked well enough, not that Lou knew anything of this. All Lou knew was that the sacks were heavy and he was tired.

Harl... Jourdaine looked well, walked well, only the sweat and the glaze to his eyes giving off his nerves. Luckily it just looked like hard work.

They worked in silence, moving past each other on each turn without a word, too out of breath to even try. On returning from depositing a relatively light sack, Lou noticed Jourdaine struggling. Poor homme not cut out for this type of work, he thought, and went over to lend a hand. "Hey... need to build up a few muscles, mate."

A breathless nod. "Tha'ssatruth."

He slapped him on the back. Fine cove, nice chap. "Ye'll get used to it." Probably not true, but everything in life couldn't be.

The man nodded and leaned against the cart, leaving Lou to fetch the last bag, a large one. Fine. Thanks. Lovely. He trudged back and all but dragged the very last bag to the cart. "_Dieu_." He was panting like a cart-horse, and felt soaked. Hopefully, Scaramouche thought, the sweat would not run rivulets through the greasepaint.

Jourdaine was also panting, almost asthmatic, and Lou felt a moment of amusement before taking fresh air into his lungs and nodding. "Right. Right. Okay. Right. Let's get out of here." They'd loaded the bags as they went, luckily, because he felt incapable of lifting anymore.

A tired nod from Harlequin, and the parts were almost played out.

"..get on up, I'll drive." He threw the last sacks onto the cart and then hopped up next to Harlequin. The horses were rested and calm, and he trotted them slowly out the gate. A new guard, different from the last, looked up as they drove out.

"Hey... who are you?"

"...replacements. Laundry. Lovely to meet you. Au'voir." Not quite Lou. Far more Scaramouche. The Guard made a protest, but the cart had passed him by and was already down the street. They had done it.


	6. We Grow Strong If We Believe

They'd done it. Oh Dieu. They'd done it.

Harlequin was _entirely_ beyond the scope of Joly's ability at the moment; the possibility of losing his life had too firmly attached him to it to be anyone but his own slight self. He could feel Grantaire shaking on the seat next to him. Was it nerves? It had to be. Oh Dieu, Grantaire having nerves? He learned something new every day. "I think we did it," Grantaire finally said softly.

"I…I think we have…" he said, and shook his head. "Dieu…" It was not an oath or a petition – one only had to look around at the world to see that such prayers had no more effect than any other superstition – no…it was more complex. _Thank god I survived. Now what the hell is coming that the Divinity thought it was necessary I be around for?_

"My sentiments exactly," Grantaire said, and he wondered for a second, startled, if he could read minds in addition to all his other hidden talents, before laughing a little at himself. Of course not.

Right?

"Right…so…" Grantaire continued, then stopped, apparently to pull himself together. The change was visible. Scaramouche said, "_Harlequin_, the deserted school is only ten minutes from here at a quick trot."

Harlequin shifted a little in his seat atop the cart, remembering everything now. "I was just going to ask after our next course of action."

He laughed, and it was mildly unsettling to the ill-reassured Joly who kept poking out from behind Harlequin's mask. Oh come on, pay attention! "Yes well…I just hope we can convince these fellows to stay put."

"That might take some convincing."

Scaramouche frowned a bit. "Oui…I know. But they can't just go _wandering_ around until I've managed to sort out the little coup d'etat that'll stop th' police from picking them up again."

He sighed. "Surely one of them will see enough sense to convince the others." 'One of them' would definitely have to be Combeferre, the only one of them who really belonged in the same sentence as 'see sense'.

"We'll have to hope so," Scaramouche said solemnly.

Soon enough they were quietly pulling up behind the school, where they wouldn't be seen.

"Now what?" he whispered. Well, if that wasn't ever a stupid question…

"I'll be _damned_ if I'm carrying them inside," the other man said.

"_Agreed_." His arms felt ready to free themselves from his shoulders and his back was threatening to remain permanently curved and possibly form a hunch. Oh god, what if it _did_?

Scaramouche raised an eyebrow. "Shall we let them go, then?"

"I suppose we shall."

Scaramouche made a show of crossing himself and then spat over the side of the cart. "For luck," he explained blandly in reply to Harlequin's stare before making his way back to the rear of the cart and beginning the task of freeing the men there.

"I see…" he said, joining him. Must be something that comes from hanging around with actors. Very superstitious place, the theater…silly, if you asked him, though he might have to reconsider his opinions if this really did pull through.

One by one the others crawled out to freedom. Prouvaire was still trying to keep his hair tied up. Lucien was blinking in the sunlight and staring up at the school with the same sort of curious look he gave potential mistresses when sizing them up on the street. Daniel…Daniel had tripped over the sacks and fallen, and he was laughing. He had missed that laugh. Joly gladly seized on Dominic as a distraction. He didn't need to worry about Daniel at the moment…

"_Damn_, that feels good," Dom was saying, stretching like the laziest cat in the world. "Sure you gave me the right size bag?"

"Oh, quite," Scaramouche was replying with a grimace.

Lucien's eyes didn't seem to have adjusted to the light yet. He could have a concussion. That would be bad, bad, bad…then again, it could just be the sun reflecting off of Enjolras' hair. "Hey, Enjolras. Haven't seen you since they picked us up."

Enjolras ignored Lucien in favor of questioning Scaramouche. "I assume you have some sort of plan?"

"Indeed I do," Scaramouche said with a grin wide enough to split his ears in half. "You will do us all th' courtesy of staying here and waiting for Papa Scaramouche to clear th' way for you all to return to house and household."

Feuilly smoothed his hair back into place, still looking suspicious. "And we're just to trust you?"

"Oh for the love of God, they got us out of jail, didn't they?" Dominic said, irritated. "Now will you be quiet?"

Lucien cut in over Prouvaire doing his usual stargazing and remarking on the morbid beauty of the building. "I agree with Dominic. It's hardly polite to cast aspersions on our friendly rescuers." He should think not, after all the work they went to…

"All right," Feuilly said with a grudging scowl, "But surely they've a purpose." He turned to Scaramouche. It was _odd_ how everyone did that, given that they wouldn't dream of turning to _Grantaire_ for anything. "Why go to the bother of getting us out, m'sieur?"

Scaramouche's mouth gaped again in that wide, painfully ironic grin. "An overblown sense of justice, m'sieur."

Where was Enjolras in all this? Harlequin felt a certain professional worry, and Joly had a morbid curiosity concerning his interactions with Scaramouche. Ah, there he was, thoroughly ignoring everyone and having his messy cravat fussed over by Combeferre. Combeferre and Daniel really ought to trade notes on fussing over people, he thought with some amusement. Not that either of them really needed any help, though, and so…

"Hmmm," Feuilly said, thankfully distracting him once more. "It's a rare thing."

"Scaramouche is a rare creature." A little bow. "May I show you to your quarters?"

"Lead away," Lucien said gratefully. "You got anything to eat? I'm starved." Of course. He would be.

Scaramouche frowned at him. "We'll get provisions once you're settled." Provisions? Oh god. Just the _thought _of trying to feed them all was unsettling.

Lucien shrugged and took a dig at Dominic with his elbow. "They feed you in your special solitary cell, amigo?"

He tuned them out as Dominic made some kind of return jest and they returned to their normal routine of shoving each other back and forth and teasing each other relentlessly. At this point he could only assume that Scaramouche knew what he was doing – Dieu knew Harlequin didn't.


	7. Grab Up Your One Golden Chance

A/N: As we sometimes forget to link first and last names together... the following are our given names for the Amis: Augustin Enjolras, Eugene Combeferre, Daniel L'aigle, Maurice Joly, Perceval Grantaire, Dominic Bahorel, Alexandre Feuilly, Lucien Courfeyrac, and Jehan-Marie Prouvaire.

It would have been quite amusing. Perhaps if it had been happening to anyone else, Grantaire would have downed a glass of absinthe and laughed, and called the poor fool a sad victim of the fates, and advised him to offer sacrifices at the temple in Corinth.

In other words, he would have been an ass. He was always an ass when he could help it. Some of it was the wine, but much of it was the knowledge that life was a highly amusing and dreadful thing. Enough people saw the dreadfulness of it, to be sure, but how many actually bothered to laugh? Not enough. He made up for it with bottle in his hand. An ass, a drunkard, and a drowned madman.

The lock to the old, deserted school building was a warder lock. Something simple but irritating. Certainly, m'sieurs and mesdammes, I _have_ a skeleton key. Why of _course _I do. But the simplicity! A skeleton key in one hand and the world of education and rosary beads is yours for the taking! It lacked finesse, it lacked challenge. He liked leaning over with a piece of thin, carefully crafted metal, jiggling around for the pins of the lock... scrubbing them, pushing and clicking... finding the binding pin and sliding it into place.

It was like thinking through a problem. Each piece fit together until there was a whole, and a door, and the door was open.

A skeleton key was a showman's chicancery. He did not feel sufficiently in the role of Scaramouche to enjoy the drama, the presenting of the key to the lock, the little flourish of opening the door, the faint applause from the audience... the doves flying out of his hat, most likely. He opened the door with speed and little fanfare, and escorted the seven 'guests' inside. It was a grim, quiet building which had been shut down after three of the students had been found dead, having tripped against each other and fallen down a particularly steep flight of stairs. In a matter of weeks the school had closed, and the nuns who had run it had disappeared back to their convent to pray for forgiveness and absolution on their knees before a plaster and wood god.

If he were inclined to be religious - which, as he had told Jehan on several occasions, he was not - he tended to believe God would be less interested in cells and rosary beads and more interested in the lives of three small girls.

Still. Safe and warm and far from the prying eyes of authority. That was what counted at the moment. He weaved through the halls at random and picked a room close to the centre of the building. No windows, plenty of desks. They could play teacher and let Enjolras lead the class. "It'll be warmest here." Thank the little mercies he was remembering to disguise his voice.

Like trusting lambs, the Amis de ABC settled around the room. Courfeyrac draped his long angular form over three desks, curly head tossed back in an eternal laugh as he tried to spot where his mate was and whether he was about to be attacked from the flank. Prouvaire looked enchanted and poetical, leaning on a chair and writing sonnets to the architecture of the building, no doubt. Combeferre tutted and fussed at Enjolras to one side, fixing battered cravats and collars and tsking loudly about failed assignments due for resubmission in a few days time.

All normal, then. He watched for a moment or two and then raised his voice. "We will fetch some supplies, blankets and food and so on. Now listen to me children, you are not to leave this place until I tell you it is safe, comprendez?"

Bahoral turned to him with an eyebrow raised in question mark. "Papa Scaramouche knows best, is that the word?"

"Papa Scaramouche _always_ knows best, dear boy." Now fully outside of his role, he was overcome with the usual fear that someone would see him for who he was, a man dressed up in rags and pretending to be something he was not. He grinned to cover his nerves, stretching the smile so wide it felt it would split his face.

"So long as I eat and drink and sleep..." Courfeyrac yawned and stretched, catlike and serene on his desks. "I'll be a _happy_ garcon." Eternal stomach, putain de merde. How the hell was he going to keep them all in supplies for however long this little jaunt was going to take? Not like his salary stretched to 'Food and Clothes and Blankets for Seven Students Suspected of Plotting Against The Government'. See postscript. They really _were_ plotting against the government so I guess we can't actually be outraged.

You realise I can't afford new socks? How am I meant to feed you, garcons? I got you out of dam' prison, isn't that enough? More than anyone expected, I'm sure. Just... oh, survive off Enjolras's vision for a few days.

His thoughts were interrupted by a crash and a loud, cheerful burst of laughter. L'aigle, bless his bald pate, had picked the only desk devoured by worms and it had decided to give way beneath him. He was sitting in a pile of splinters and looking up at them, as if to say 'really, how do these things happen? Isn't it delightful?'

"...what happened to Maurice?" L'aigle said brightly, now he had the attention of all except Enjolras.

Oh dear. That was not a good question. That was a very bad question. The kind of question that always was asked just before the hero's deception is discovered by a vengeful king, usually.

**"**Maurice?" Bahoral shrugged. "I thought he was in with you all."

Combeferre looked over at them, frowning for some reason other than the rumpled state of Enjolras' clothing. "Maurice isn't here?"

"You didn't leave him behind... in _there_?" L'aigle looked shocked and sounded perfectly willing to go back in after his friend, if this was the case. The gemini were close. Closer, perhaps, than even Bahorel and Courfeyrac.

The homme in question looked more than a little uncomfortable, and Grantaire prayed to whomever was currently accepting applications from cynics and drunkards that the sight of his friend's distress wouldn't push Joly into revealing himself. "Of course not. It was only the... seven of you."

Seven. Not nine. Not eight. Seven. And while we're about it, did everyone just assume I'd not get picked up with the lot of you? It was quite possibly insulting, and Grantaire had to spend a moment or two deciding whether or not he could bothered being insulted by it. After all, it took a lot of energy to sustain a state of proper offended feelings. He hadn't been able to manage it with any particular flair for some years.

"...then where the _hell_ is Maurice?" L'aigle snapped, still on the floor, still surrounded by shards of desk, and yet another example of what had seemed definitely to be a gentle lamb proving to have sharp teeth.

Harlequin - Joly - seemed to twitch a little, and Grantaire hoped he was the only one who could see the conflict in the younger man's eyes.

"Hey now, Daniel..." Courfeyrac, bless his heart, decided to lend a hand. "maybe they didn't pick him up, eh?"

Splendid boy. "That's right. He managed to get away. He's quite safe. Don't fret." Said in the best confidant Scaramouche tones. Dieu, who would have guessed it would be _L'aigle_ who would cause the fuss?

**"** ..._Damn_." L'aigle began to get up, slowly picking himself free of the bits and pieces of school-owned and student-abused property. "I'd better go find him."

Feuilly drifted over, for the first time not looking as though he wished to examine both Harlequin and Scaramouche under strictures similar to the Spanish Inquisition. Of course, with Feuilly it would have to be the _Polish_ Inquisition. **"**I don't remember seeing him. Maybe they didn't."

"If he wasn't picked up, he'll be worried. I'm going to go find him."

With delicious irony that Grantaire was _sure_ he'd appreciate later when all this was safely over, Joly was the one to answer this particular statement. "That's...not a good idea."

No. A verybad idea. Hideous. Right up there with Oedipus and his romantic decisions. Grantaire reached out and firmly pushed L'aigle into a chair. "You need to stay here. _Stay_."

"Really, Daniel." the good Doctor Combeferre decided that four or five men wasn't enough for one nervous breakdown, and sauntered over. "I'm sure Maurice will be fine. It won't do him any good if you go getting yourself arrested, will it?"

"... you don't _understand_!" Merde. Stop looking like a wounded _dog_, L'aigle. Please.

Feuilly sighed. "He'll be _fine_."

The sigh was a little too much like those _Don't listen to Grantaire, he's always like that_ sighs the Amis gave to visitors from other revolutionary groups, and quite suddenly the Man Grantaire and the Paragon Scaramouche and all the people in between lost their temper. "Don't go being an _idiot_, y'damn fool."

For a moment he almost thought L'aigle would hit him, and for a fraction of that moment he wanted the fight that would follow. But then the man subsided into sulky, dejected silence, and Courfeyrac patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"You have to stay here, really..." Joly didn't sound like he was even convincing himself, but L'aigle nodded. Perhaps it was a sub-conscious response. Before anything futher could happen, Grantaire took Joly by the arm and hoped his very presence would remind him that they were meant to keep things a secret.

There had been a very good reason. Grantaire could no longer remember what this was, but then he was operating through a fog at the moment, so there were a lot of things he couldn't remember. Like the colour of the dolls his sister had played with. Strange colour. Not pink. Not yellow. Not...

Scaramouche. _Scaramouche_. "Good. Well. Any requests, my fine lads?" Don't ask for wine and gold, because you aren't _getting_ any.

"Hair ribbons," said the poet in the corner, getting a few amused looks from the others.

" ...food. Blankets. Books. Paper. Pens. Ink." Combeferre. Ever practical.

Enjolras looked up at this, the far away look of communing angels gone from his eyes. "What are we discussing, again?"

"...apparently, _hair ribbons_." Feuilly said, with a slight bite, and the poet flushed, leaving Combeferre to explain.

" ...the citizens are going to procure some supplies for our stay there anything you want?"

"All right." Perhaps not _quite_ finished communing then. And how the _hell_ was he going to pay for this tidy little lot?

"Anything else?" He didn't know if he really wanted to hear the answer. For a moment Enjolras and Combeferre exchanged a look, and then Comebferre gave a half-amused, half-exasperated sigh.

"...Make that a _lot_ of paper."

"Well then. Stay here and await Papa Scaramouche, children." Paper. Great. Not like _that_ cost anything. Dieu. What did they think he was? Louis 16th?

"Harlequin is to remain, I assume?" Harlequin was giving every indication of bloody well remaining whether Scaramouche liked it or not.

"Harlequin may remain if Harlequin please." He bowed slightly, giving over control to the prior demands of friendship and twinhood. Grantaire could hardly expect Joly to desert his L'aigle, and Scaramouche relinquished his Harlequin with little more than an ironic lifting of his brow.

Joly nodded back from behind the paint and disguises."Harlequin does please."

A titter from Lucien, and most of the other students were now staring. Obviously their educations were lacking in the realms of fine drama. "Fine. Au'voir." He nodded to the schoolroom that lacked both teachers and students, and left. Debts would have to be called in. Some of the larger debts perhaps, those he had been saving for his next brush with the friendly cognes.

Still, perhaps paper was a good enough cause. And hair ribbons.


	8. Between Us Stood A Wall

Harlequin, of course, did _not_ please. Harlequin would have been more than pleased to tag along and turn whatever tricks were needed to come up with these revolutionary idiots' requests. Harlequin definitely did not please to remain behind and miss the adventure and fun in order to baby-sit seven overgrown schoolboys.

Maurice Joly, on the other hand, had absolutely _no_ intention of going _anywhere_.

All right, so there was a risk that Daniel might recognize him. But as long as he kept their interaction to a minimum it shouldn't be a problem. Right? Of course, right. Just stand in the corner, Joly, and don't let the tacked-on grin slip. Soon enough you'll all be out of this.

The next week didn't pass, it _dragged_. Grantaire made occasional appearances, usually staying just long enough to deliver some news as well as what he, Harlequin-Joly-what-have-you, was continually reminding Lucien were _rations_. (He'd also brought a loose mask of black silk for Harlequin to wear – what a relief to be able to wash off the makeup and put his glasses back on so that he could _see _properly.) Lucien and Dominic's methods of distracting themselves from their ravenous stomachs usually ended in falling plaster and Combeferre yelling something about being no good to the Cause with one's head bashed in. Prouvaire, having obtained his precious hair ribbons, chose to spend his days begging paper and ink from Combeferre so he could complete…something or other. He'd tuned that bit out on account of ominous crashing noises in the hall. Combeferre, Enjolras, and – surprisingly – Feuilly all behaved themselves. Dieu, was he ever grateful for that. He didn't think he could have handled one more comparison involving Poland at the moment. As for Daniel…poor Daniel. He didn't stop moping once all week. Once or twice the selfish thought crossed Maurice's mind that at least he could see he was missed, but it was smothered by his friend's obvious pain and by, ironically, missing Daniel himself. Maybe they _were_ in the same room, but they might as well have half of Paris between them.

The close quarters seemed to be driving them all slightly crazy. By the end of the week, even Lucien and Dominic had slowed down and condescended to laze about in the same room. Feuilly was getting more snappish, Enjolras becoming more and more withdrawn, Combeferre working more and more determinedly to prevent the trend, and Prouvaire had settled on critiquing Luc's sonnets, since Courfeyrac had taken his paper and ink.

"What rhymes with 'desire'?" Lucien said, flicking a spot of ink at Feuilly to catch his attention.

Feuilly wiped it from his cheek with a small glare and recited mechanically. "Fire. Spire. Mire. Choir. Tire. Perspire."

"You missed 'sire'," Dominic chided, taking a break from his attempts to knock Luc's hat off the desk with a ball of paper.

"Sire really doesn't help, Dom," Lucien said mildly. "But choir…mmhmm. Would help if we were allowed to send letters out of this dam' place."

Harlequin cut in. "You'll be out soon enough. I'm just waiting on the word from Scaramouche."

"I hope he is nearly at the completion of his goal," Combeferre said. He appeared to be currently trying to convince Enjolras to eat something. "I've missed five classes." Dominic rolled his eyes and looked as if he were about to just steal whatever Enjolras was determinedly not eating.

"You realize that classical poetry does not have to rhyme in order to be beautiful. The Orientals have no rhymes at all in their short poems," Prouvaire offered.

Courfeyrac was ignoring him. "I don't mind missing the classes, and of course – indebted and all that –" Ha, Harlequin should _think_ so. It was no small feat getting them out, much less putting up with them all while deciding what to do with them. "I'm worried about my girl," he continued. "Do you have _any_ idea? I'm too old to be in school."

"No one's ever too old to learn." Leave it to Feuilly to purposely twist the pun.

"Aye, well, I think I've grown out of these lessons, cher," Lucien said, grinning and extending his long legs so they stuck out past the child-sized desk. Dominic laughed.

Harlequin turned his head a bit, tired of the bickering he knew was about to come, and saw Scaramouche half-visible in the doorway, immediately identifiable by the long-nosed black-and-silver mask he'd earlier procured 'to obscure the more obvious traces of my identity'.

He ignored Prouvaire's sighs of admiration for the poetry of the Japanese and slipped over to the door at Scaramouche's silent command. "We did it," the masked man said quietly. "They're not going to rearrest them and have issued a formal retraction of charges. I don't doubt we'll be watched very closely, but for now we're free to return to hearth, home, and heart." Joly breathed a sigh of extreme relief that almost eclipsed the touch of irony Harlequin could hear in Scaramouche's voice.

"…I'm impressed," he said quietly when Harlequin had finally got the better of Joly again.

Scaramouche made a dramatic, sweeping bow. "Merci, Harlequin. You can spread the good word, ah? I'm off home."

He nodded. "All right then."

For just a second, he thought he could see the man Grantaire behind the mask. As if in confirmation, he said very quietly, "I'll see you around, Joly." His gaze suddenly moved over Joly's shoulder and he realized there must be someone behind him.

"See you, then," he said quickly. There was a wisp of smoke and Grantaire was no longer at the door.

"Well? What does 'Papa Scaramouche' have for us today?" Combeferre asked, sounding taken a bit aback. Harlequin turned.

"It's all taken care of. You're free to go," he said with a slight grin.

"We _are_? Mon dieu." He had never seen Combeferre so surprised.

"Indeed," he answered, the grin spreading.

"Well, what is it?" Enjolras said, looking up from the barely-touched bread he was passing to Dominic.

Combeferre didn't seem to notice the obvious duplicity. "We can go. The authorities are muzzled now." Lucien gave an excited yell and nearly knocked over the inkstand, Prouvaire paused in his defense of Haiku to laugh in delight, and even Daniel…even Daniel looked a little brighter.

Feuilly was shaking his head. "I owe you an apology, then." Feuilly really wasn't such a bad sort. A little overcautious sometimes, perhaps. But you couldn't call that _bad_.

"Hey, I told you to trust them," Dom said, punching his shoulder lightly and grinning through a mouthful of bread. Feuilly gave him a glare like liquid acid.

"Damn straight." Lucien vaulted over the desk and was suddenly pumping his hand delightedly. He had to suppress his grin at Courfeyrac being his typical self.

Then Daniel finally spoke up. "So I can go find Maurice _now_?" Oh _dieu_, he'd forgotten he was still there too. He would have to find a way to get out quickly, and _hurry_, if he was going to get home first. Maybe Combeferre would take care of cleaning everything up. Or he or Grantaire might come back later. It wasn't as if he had the key anyway; it was going to have to be Grantaire's job. He extricated his hand from Lucien's grasp and tried not to be obvious about looking for a way to escape.

"Yes, L'Aigle, you can go and find your twin now," Lucien said, patting Daniel's shoulder. Everyone seemed to have their backs turned; even Combeferre was paying attention to Enjolras at the moment. He slipped out the door and took off for home – _home!_ – at a flat run, doing his best to ignore his lungs' protestations. Not _all_ of them could have the foresight to provide puffs of smoke in which to disappear.


	9. You Will Be There To Find Me

Once he got outside, Daniel L'aigle could see where they were, of course. Silly of him. He tripped over the step in his hurry, and skinned a knee which had, of course, already been skinned so often that there was very little skin left on the appendage to _be_ skinned. As he dusted himself off, he tried to get his bearings properly. About two blocks over from the apartment where he sometimes spent an evening with several other struggling law students. It was meant to be for study, except on those occasions when Dominic followed him. In those cases he convinced all and sundry within the first ten minutes of the evils of studious behaviour and led a riot down the stairs which inevitably ended in threats of expulsion from the landlord.

And the apartment was only a street down from home. Home. Home and Maurice and _Dieu_ be praised... perhaps a little peace and quiet. Not a moment had passed the whole long week when he hadn't been wishing Joly was with him. Sometimes he'd even had the selfish thought that it would have been a whole lot better if Joly _had_ been picked up by the red-coats like the rest of them had. Of course he'd felt guilty each time he'd had that thought. After all, wasn't it better his Joli had been spared that experience? Sure he was probably worried out of his skull by now, but at least he hadn't been forced into a cell smelling of sweat and piss and vomit and having to listen to Feuilly moan about the government and Poland for five hours.

On the other hand, there was a lot that could have happened to him in a week. Daniel knew that there was a _big_ lot that could have happened to him in a week because he'd made a list. In his head. Adding to it daily.

He ran home and only fell over twice more. Finally. Home, up the steps and the door was open - thank Dieu, at least ten possibilities off the list right there! "Maurice? Maurice?" the living area was empty, tidy and clean with a single cup on the table which _surely_ must have been just left there. Joly never just left dishes lying about. Never. Emphatically never. "Are you here?" Please be here. Please.

For a moment his heart pounded very loudly in his ears, and then he heard over the top of the noise a familiar and oh so welcome voice. "Daniel?" And his Joly, spectacles, handkerchief and all hurried into the room looking pale, a bit dishevelled and woefully tired. But here. Alive! Alive and well - or hopefully well!

Daniel took three big steps forwards and hugged his friend with a laugh, the first time he'd laughed in a long while. "You all right?"

"Oui..." Maurice grinned back and Daniel was just so glad to see it that he laughed again in sheer delight. This was how the world was right, finally _finally_ right. "Oui... I heard you all got picked up! What happened?"

He'd actually forgotten for a moment why he'd been away, only conscious of it having been a very long time and there having been far too much worrying going on. With this, memories came back and he shook his head with a rueful kind of grin. Oh _oui, _and Dom gets to go down bloodying the noses of half-a-dozen while moi? Moi? "Oh _dieu,_" he said out loud, pressing Maurice's shoulder just to reassure himself that his friend was still here. "Would you believe I was the first they got because I tripped over a _cat?_ And it wasn't even a black cat!" A tabby, with a very loud yowl and sharp claws. He'd gone down in a tumble of fluff and screeching animal, and a single solitary cogne had walked up to him and arrested him without any fuss at all.

"Oh dieu, no..." Maurice didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't laughing.

"Oui. And they got ev'ryone else too. Though you'll have heard that." Or he supposed he would have. From somewhere. Where did one hear these things? Bars? Joly didn't like bars. Something about the miasmas in the air.

But apparently this was a case where he was right the first time, for his Joly was nodding. "Yeah. Dieu... what a day to miss the meeting over influenza. Though it turned out to be nothing."

If ever Maurice had developed an affliction with better planning, Daniel was sure he didn't know when. Even the time a case which could very easily have been Scarlet Fever, as earnestly and rather hoarsely whispered to him, had prevented him from attending his mother's dinner party had not been quite as well planned and perfectly timed as this one. "It was good timing on your part. My bad luck I didn't get a cold until after they put us in prison!" Note. Neither Lucien, Feuily nor even Jehan Prouvaire were particularly patient when stuck in a cell with someone who was sniffing loudly every few minutes. He grinned at the thought, and launched into the tale. "So I was in a cell with Lucien, Feu, and Prouvaire... and then suddenly these two men came up to our cell. They had the strangest accents, and they were holding sacks. One of them picked the lock and then distracted the guard while the other - he was Harlequin - let us out." Didn't it all sound incredible out loud? It was hard to believe it had even happened, really. " ...we rode out of the prison in laundry sacks on the back of a cart and we've been in a deserted school ever since!"

Joly's eyes were bigger than the large china plates they sometimes used for particularly important guests. Like parents, or schoolmasters, or the small elderly ladies who lived two apartments over. "...you're serious?"

He was tired after the run and anyway, finally being in the vicinity of actual soft furnishings was too much of a temptation. He grabbed Maurice by the arm and tugged him over to the sofa, sitting them both down as he gathered the rest of the story straight in his mind. Hard to get all the facts in a straight row, really. "Oui! Completely! The other man called himself Papa Scaramouche and wouldn't let us leave." He tipped his head to one side and studied his friend with a frown, apologetically. "I was worried about you, mon frere." Very worried. See there's this list I have, and if you ever want to get really good nightmares... I'll tell you all about it.

"I was worried sick about _you_," Maurice replied, and Daniel winced a little at the rebuke he thought he could hear in his friend's voice. Damn. It must have been twice as bad for him as it was for you, Daniel L'aigle. Just think, you were safe in a schoolhouse with not a care in the world while he was out here wondering if you'd been shot or captured or executed or... something else really _really_ bad.

"I told them..." he said even more apologetically. He should have told them more, perhaps. Like more than three times a day. Or even maybe just have slipped out while they weren't looking. Though he'd have tripped on the step anyway. "but they wouldn't let me leave. I'm sorry." He had a very good penitent face.

To his relief, it worked and Maurice nodded. "It's alright. I still can't believe you just got off."

Oh thank heavens. I'm forgiven. He sighed in relief and stuck his feet up on the table and for once Maurice didn't nudge him in the ribs to tell him to put them down again. "..me either. I'm sure they're not going to forget about this. I don't know what the men did, to be honest." Bribed the devil, maybe. Scary-mouth - as Dominic and Lucien had named him after his first appearance - looked like the kind of man who could be either angel or demon.

"Eh...at least none of you are sitting in jail still."

"And am I glad!" He grinned. "Being stuck in a cell with Lucien isn't so bad... or even Prouvaire... but Alexandre was pretty wound up." And up. And up. And up some more. Thought he was going to break like all my watches when I over-wind them. Again.

Maurice snickered, trying and failing to hide it. "I can see that."

"Honestly, I don't want to see any of them for the next week or so at least. Just you, ami, and a peaceful life - eh?" He sighed, part in exasperation and part in hope. So long as Enjolras didn't get his way, they would have a little time to return to normal before the glorious Enterprise Of Trying To Overthrow The Evil Government continued. Sometimes he thought Enjolras practised before the mirror for hours just to get things to come out in capitals. Dieu only knew _he_ couldn't manage it.

"I hope so."

Hah. He grinned at his friend, who looked every bit as comfortable and relieved as he felt. "So... what has happened to you for the last few weeks? Nothing too exciting, I hope." Any plagues, cher? I hope not, because dieu knows you get upset if there's no one around to help you with the rubs and the infusions and so on. Even a great lump like me is better than no one at all.

"Well...I did twist my ankle. I thought it was broken for a bit." Joly was poking at the side of the couch, not really looking at him. "And then I almost caught pneumonia. But other than that, pretty quiet. I was bored without you."

That made him smile. So he'd been missed too? Not that he doubted Maurice's friendship... but sometimes it felt as though all he brought to the flat was an aura of bad luck and a lot of burned toast. "Not half as bored as I was. I even missed all the bad luck!" Not much, oddly enough, can go wrong when one sits in a school for a week.

"That bad, was it?"

He nodded with a solemn, straight-faced expression which would have made Enjolras proud, and then - thinking of Enjolras brought another face to mind and he sat up slightly. "...hey... did you see Grantaire at all while we were inside?"

Maurice looked both unsurprised at the question and uninterested in the man mentioned. "...just once, when I was looking for you. He didn't seem overly concerned."

Yeah. That was GrandR. Worry? About what? What was there to worry about when you didn't have anything to worry _for_ except booze. Not like he actually cared about anything. Cynics, Daniel had come to realise, had freed themselves of the problems involved with caring for anyone or anything. It seemed like cowardice to him, giving up on the world because of fear and disinterest. Stupid, too. A lot of fun to be had caring for people. "I hope things turn out well. This shook everyone up, I think - except maybe Enjolras." Things - the students. Turn out well - we don't have to evict anyone as a spy. Shook everyone up - hell I think they even looked at me in suspicion a couple of times.

Joly nodded and made a good point in the way he always made good points. "Yes, but can _anything_ shake up Enjolras?"

" I don't think it's possible, Joli. I think he would not be bothered by the earth splitting beneath his feet." Or by Combeferre tugging at his jacket, whichever comes first.

"Indeed. Much less by this." Maurice gave a sigh as if to say his point was made and he was satisfied, and leant back in the sofa. "I wonder what their motive was?"

That had been a subject of much discussion. He smiled a little at the thought of some of the suggestions Feuilly had put forwards, and rubbed his head. "Oh - they seemed decent enough. Said it was a sense of justice gone mad."

"Hiow mad?" Maurice was raising an eyebrow at him in demand for more information. Daniel always felt a little intimidated by this, as though if he didn't get everything quite right it might break something or turn the world inside out.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful ami," and he chuckled here, because really is _did_ sound ungrateful, didn't it? "...but you should have seen some of the things they wore! Masks even! And hats!" Like out of a circus. Magicians and their costumes, or very dangerous clowns.

"Oh goodness. ...You know, my mother would have asked you by now if you were entirely sure they were mortal."

He snorted and puffed out his cheeks, thinking how glad he was that Joli's mother was _not_ currently in residence or visiting them. "But you're not your mother, bless her soul and thank the Bon Dieu for that."

"Ohhh, yes." Maurice grinned, quite sharing with Daniel all and any feelings concerning his mother, the appropriateness of the lenght of her visits, and whether or not she should really say that sort of thing in public.

"I suppose we'll never know what made them pick us... of all the prisoners there, how they knew so much about us... I'd like to thank them properly, you understand? Most of us did a pretty poor job of that." He shifted a little in embarrassment. After all, he'd spent most of his time glaring at Harlequin and Scaramouche whenever they appeared in an attempt to make _someone_ understand that he was _not_ happy. And then he'd run out of the school without even bothering to say thank you. It had been a pretty dangerous task, getting them all out and keeping them fed - dieu! That must have _cost_! How were they ever going to pay _that_ back?

"Mm. I...can see that happening." Joly said, rather startlingly. "I'm fairly sure they know you're all grateful, though."

He turned a look of surprise on his friend. Strange thing to say. After all, Joly had only heard about the hommes' existence not two minutes ago... still. He invariably knew more of these matters than Daniel. "You think so?"

"Yeah. I think so." He sounded sure of himself.

Too much trouble to worry about it. He smiled and lay back against the couch, relaxing properly. "Well, I hope you're right. Mm. This is nice."

"Being home?" Maurice was obviously in an astute mood. When he was like this it was easier just to go be pulled along in the wake. Trying to keep up just confused Daniel.

"Yes. It's very nice. Our lads are a noisy lot really. " Understatement of the putain decade. Might as well have said 'Robespiere wasn't all that fond of the King.

Maurice gave an odd little sigh. **"**I can agree with that."

"Best of men, of course," he said hurriedly, half-worried that Combeferre or Enjolras would somehow divine what he was saying. "But _really_, ami. Why _would_ anyone want to kick a school desk up and down a corridor for two hours having races?" And up. And down. And up. And down. And not just any hour, mind you. No. Two o'clock in the _morning_.

Rather to his surprised, Maurice stifled a giggle. "I imagine they just got rather bored..."

"...almost got their heads banged together is what they almost got." Still, though he shook his head, he was trying not to smile. It was good to be next to Joly, laughing and joking and being himself again. It was good to be out of the old halls and the room smelling of chalk and ink blots, and back in their comfortably tidy lodgings. Soon he would go to his room, change into his nightshirt, finally remove the clothes he'd had to make do with for over a week now, and go to sleep somewhere with enough blankets for every inch of him.

"Don't tell me..." Maurice was trying and not succeeding to suppress a grin. "Dominic and Lucien. Probably Dominic's idea?"

"Aye..." Danile laughed and nodded. Typical of the two troublemakers, after all. "After Feu shouted at them they stopped." It had been a while since he'd last seen Feuilly so angry. It was strange, he just couldn't quite bring himself to call their 'polish fan-maker' by his first name. Not even after being in prison together, which really one would think would tend to encourage familiarity. Maurice was laughing, and Daniel felt himself grin wider just listening to the sound. "What with that and them going on about who turned us in to the authorities... I was glad when Scary-mouth gave us permission to leave."

"I didn't even think about that. Who might've turned you in, that is."

"...we sure did." Daniel made a wry face at the thought of the extensive conversations had on the subject. "Was a major topic of conversation, it was." Too major. They were out, unharmed and free. What was the harm done, really? Without really meaning to - and when _did_ he mean to? - he found himself yawning loudly and broadly.

"You need rest." Maurice was looking at him in that very particular way he had which said he was just about to diagnose something particularly serious.

Daniel rubbed his head again, and gave a sheepish smile."...it was ... very _cold_ there, and I forgot to ask for a hat." He could never sleep without something to cover his head with. It got cold in the night, and he was sure that was how he got such bad grades. All the knowledge seeped out of his head like hot air.

"Aw...oh, no...you didn't catch cold or anything?" Maurice was feeling his forehead, palm light and cool and wonderfully soothing. **"**Cher, you should be in bed..."

Daniel couldn't help but smile. This was, after all, what he had been missing so desperately all week. " ...I don't think I got a cold, but it was hard to sleep. I'll go up to bed now, mon frere."

"Good, go on."

Daniel stretched a little and rose, patting his friend cheerfully on the shoulder. **"**I'm glad to have you back." I'm glad to be home around someone who won't think I'm just a big bad-luck charm, or a bald head, or a laugh. Around someone smarter than me who doesn't make me feel stupid. Home. I'm just so glad to be home.


	10. Only Fools Believe In Bliss

Dieu, what a week. Dominic Bahorel kicked back a little in his chair and took a desultory glance 'round the Musain's back room. Would you look at that, everybody but Capital-R had managed to show up safe and sound. _Relatively_ sound, anyhow, seeing as Jehan had his ribbons tied in perfect bows and Feuilly was being his usual mad scribbling self. The Gemini were once again glued together at the hip, which, Dieu be praised, meant no more of the Eagle's long faces. It wasn't _natural_ to see him with a frown. Combeferre's hovering over Enjolras didn't really count, on account of he'd never stopped in the first place.

Dominic turned his head toward Luc and caught a whiff of…what the _hell_? He gave a snort of laughter. "Dieu, Luc, what's the matter with you? You smell like a woman."

"And you smell like a pig." Luc grinned and smoothed his hair carefully – worse than Jehan. Meant he had a woman. Damn it, what did Luc want a _woman_ for? On a long-term basis, that is; Bahorel had absolutely no objections to a woman or three on the short term. Nothing wrong with having a woman until it started making you late to meetings and keeping you from going out with your amis and wearing something god-awful that smelled like _flowers_. Ah well, sooner or later Luc'd break with her and he'd get his friend back. But it had damn well better be sooner.

"Well. Seeing that we're…all here," Enjolras said loudly and none too kindly. That meant Capital-R had to have arrived while he wasn't looking. Ah, there he was, looking all kinds of hungover, but still pleased with himself. That was R for you. "I think it's best we get started."

Luc's elbow dug into his ribs suddenly. Was he supposed to be paying attention? Pah. Enjolras wouldn't get to anything really important for at least five minutes. He elbowed Luc back with a grin. Luc sniggered and swatted his arm in turn. What, was he supposed to just ignore that? Of course not. This cried out for retribution. _Whap._

Enjolras coughed rather loudly, making both of them look up. Combeferre had his trademark over-the-glasses glare trained on them, and most of the others were looking at them with various degrees of amusement and disapproval. Luc stopped mid-swat and pulled his arm back with a slightly abashed smile. Dominic took Combeferre's glare as a challenge and proceeded to begin a staring contest, which…Combeferre lost. Perhaps now it was time to focus; Enjolras was talking again. You just had to conserve your energy for the moment you needed it most.

"_Anyway_," Enjolras went on, "has anyone got any further news? Anyone?" He was met with a lot of head-shaking and apologetic frowns.

Combeferre spoke up, predictably. "I found several new interested parties, but I will bring them up later when we move on to that subject, Enjolras, if you like."

"Thank you. Anything else?"

"Well, our printer's still stalling on getting those pamphlets printed," Feuilly said, "if you can call that news."

Combeferre made a note somewhere in the orderly stack of papers that seemed to follow him like a cloud of gnats. Really annoying gnats. "It's a problem, but not an unassailable one."

"True," Feuilly admitted. "It's been harder convincing him it's a safe job to take since we all got arrested, though…"

Luc nodded and joined in. "Oui, a couple of my contacts won't talk to me anymore either. Think it makes them a target or something."

Oh, were they moving on to sob stories now? He could top that. "That's nothing. I actually got kicked out o' one place last week. I was still sober and everything!"

"Some of my professors requested I change classes," Combeferre said quietly, but angrier than Bahorel had seen him in a while. Of course, anything that cut into class time had to be evil. He glanced around the room again; Feuilly appeared to be positively simmering as well, L'Aigle and Jolllly looked deathly worried, and Enjolras was glaring down at Grand-R like the drunk'd just announced his intentions to marry his sister. Not that Enjolras had a sister. Dieu, but that'd be interesting…oh, R was looking at him in total confusion now, obviously just as much in the dark as he and Luc were. They shrugged at him and he turned back to his wine.

"_So_," Enjolras said rather pointedly, "I think we can say that overall this has been an _extremely_ detrimental event."

Combeferre nodded along like the good little lieutenant he was. No offense to Combeferre, but Dominic had always thought Enjolras needed men of action more than men of…whatever it was Combeferre was a man of. _Books_. Pah."It has done substantial damage."

"Right, damage to our situations as individuals but more importantly, _vastly_ more importantly, to our situation as an organization."

"That's the truth," Luc said. Enjolras was really getting into it now. He was really a glorious sight when he got worked up in the name of the Cause.

Then Grantaire broke into the gloriousness. "Hell, at least you're out of prison now, eh? Not rotting away in a labyrinthine dungeon at the mercy of our evil oppressors." He had a point. That cell had been right awful, and even getting in a laundry sack and spending an entire week cooped up with the spoilsports who passed for his friends had been worth getting out of the Prefecture.

Enjolras didn't seem to see the point. "As I've reminded you many times, Winecask - you aren't welcome here. Especially not now."

Grantaire met Enjolras' trademark icy glare gruffly, setting his glass down on the table and looking up. "…why, Apollo? What have I done to merit your wrath this time?"

Enjolras was still icy, but it was like seeing a cage of ice containing a column of _fire_. Utterly fascinating, that man, when he was really in form. A bit terrifying too – not to Bahorel, of course. But surely to anyone more faint of heart. "_Someone_," Enjolras said sharply, "had to have let the officials loose on us. No one knows we meet here except ourselves - and you. I won't belabor a dead point."

…oh, _Dieu_. Well, that would certainly explain why he was glaring so furiously. But – _Grantaire_? Turn them in to the _cognes_? Not in a hundred years. The man barely moved from his chair in the corner except to stumble home in a drunken daze. He didn't have that kind of deviousness, or capability for planning, or cleverness, or anything like that. At least not when he was as pickled as he'd been for the last several…well, as he'd been.

Capital-R was silent, leading Enjolras to set his sheer-marble face against him. "At the risk of wasting my breath, I tell you to get out."

Luc was looking at the ceiling uncomfortably. Feuilly's brow was creased, the over-naïve Jolllly looked positively aghast, Jehan looked a bit curious – he'd never been fond of R anyway, Dom knew – and Combeferre had that over-the-glasses _look_ focused on the poor confused drunkard in the corner. Finally Grand-R spoke up, simply, weakly. "I didn't."

"Your word is worth nothing here," Enjolras said cuttingly, in full archangelic blaze now; the sight was almost pathetic. If Capital-R hadn't been involved he could have by now come up with half a dozen mythological analogies at least. Bahorel didn't bother with that kind of thing.

"Enjolras…please."

"My forgiveness is not my own to give," Enjolras said. "Even if it were, you have fallen too far for me to advise you to seek it."

Grantaire went white as the king's Sunday linen. Slowly he got up, his eyes flickering around the room. Nobody could meet them, and Dominic presumed they all felt as uncomfortable as he did. Looking at no one, the dishonored drunkard dropped a few coins onto the table for his drink and crept from the room in shame. He left an awkward silence in his wake that no one wanted to break, interrupted only by Joly sniffling a bit and giving his twin a sad look that evidently meant 'I've forgotten my handkerchief, might I borrow yours'.

Dear _Dieu_. Accusing Grantaire of being the rat who'd cost them a bit of freedom? Enjolras was never wrong – that was a given – but perhaps this time he had gone too far.


	11. Such Conjecturing!

What? Quoi? Lucien De Courfeyrac, or Luc Courfeyrac as he preferred generally to be known both by amis and lovers, was confused. Whatever had just happened, had happened so swiftly and with so little warning that all he was left with was a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach that _something_ had occurred which _hadn't_ been nice. Not at all. Dom looked both stunned – a feeling he could empathise with – and uncomfortable – another feeling with which Lucien was currently growing quite familiar.

Grantaire? _Grand_R? A spy? A traitor? Luc found that he couldn't even begin to imagine the poor old sot having enough sheer _willpower_ to shamble out of the café and find his way – would he even _know_ the way? – to whatever small and nasty beaurocratic office was in charge of taking nefarious complaints against noble and handsome egalitarian students such as themselves.

What _was_ going through Enjolras' brilliant blonde head? Dieu knew His Brilliant-ness was never wrong, but seriously. _Seriously_. Grantaire? If one were to allow him – even in a hypothetical situation – the will and sheer coordination to do such a thing, anyone knew, and who better to know than his own amis like Luc and Dom themselves, that the winecask just didn't have the _nerve_ for things like that.

His Brilliantness had stopped glaring as though some Royalist Soldier had stood up in their midst and started singing the English national anthem, and was now just looking austere. "Combeferre, you mentioned several interested parties. Do you think this latest event likely to affect our ability to reach out to them?"

Combeferre had a list. Well now, wasn't that just the surprise of the day? "I do not think so. They seemed concerned only with the cause with no particular worry about their personal safety."

"Excellent." Enjolras had taken the list and now appeared to be committing it to memory. The pair of them were both quite impressive and quite honestly intimidating at the same time. How they managed to coordinate themselves into _quite_ this state of excessive coordinated efficiency was beyond him. Perhaps it was part of a secret plan on Enjolras part to disconcert the forces of tyranny. "Exactly the type of men we need."

Combeferre did that serious little nod thing he had perfected down to an art form and seemed to enter a sort of Holy Comunion where he and Enjolras looked at each other and at the notes and conversed without actually opening their mouths. Huh. Luc got tired of watching and trying to figure out what they were communing about and instead leant a bit closer to Dom and whispered, "Well that went over wonderful, didn't it amigo?"

"Huh, just perfectly." Dom snorted in his signature way.

And _there_ was the awkward silence being awkward again. Like the big iron elephant had decided to take a little walk to the café, sat down in Grantaire's vacated seat and started drinking his unfinished absinthe. The Gemini looked disturbed, Feuilly positively confused, and even Enjolras and Combeferre's communing had a subdued sort of silence to it.

His job again to get everyone back on track. Like always. What _ever_ would they do without him? "I've got some volunteers we might not want, Enjolras."

"Every willing hand counts." Enjolras stopped communing and gave him that clear-eyed look which would be enough to stop an entire army in its tracks.

"Yes, but these men seem to be attracted _by_ recent events, and I don't like the way they've approached me. It smells of fish and criminals." As in a lot of nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say-no-more and if you could see your way, good sir, to finding out how those friends of yours, good sir, happened to get out of that prison they were _in_, good sir… we'd be mightily grateful. And how would you like to get cut a deal on this beeeeyoutiful diamond ring? Belonged to a countess, it did.

Even Enjolras's perfect countenance wrinkled at the thought, as though he were smelling something even more unpleasant than the scent of wilted drunkard. "Ah. That changes things."

"I was sure it would," see? Awkward silence all gone, amis. Am I good or what? "…but I figured you should know we appear to be getting some attention from that quarter."

Enjolras nodded. "Definitely undesirable. Ours is a noble cause tainted with criminality only by virtue of the criminalization of justice."

"One has to wonder what kind of men the government marrs with the brand of criminal - when their own moral structure is so sadly lacking." Combeferre added, no longer content with the silent commune, obviously.

What were they talking about? He gave an understanding sort of nod in their direction, hoping this was an appropriate reaction. Dieu. They could just as well be speaking in Latin.

Apparently this _was_ an appropriate response, for Enjolras nodded back at him solemnly. "Indeed. We live in dark times. And yet light is near, if only we can reach out and strike the match."

"And they may try to surround us with gunpowder... but in the end it will be they who are consumed by the flames." Combeferre said softly. There was that slow-burning flame in his eyes that was tiny and cool compared to the star-like blaze that burned in Enjolras, but steadfast and eternal and long-lasting.

The others were caught up in it now, the little poet all starry eyed over the metaphors, Gemini actually distracted from their twin-like mutual worry, Feuilly on fire for something other than art and Poland for once, and even Dom looking a little less awkwardly mutinous.

"Blind as they are, they cannot see that the traps they lay for us are really traps for themselves." Enjolras had risen and was pacing up and down, his hand moving in fluid, furious gestures. "No, we shall turn the tables against them, no matter how many times they try to put us down - we shall beat them at their own game!"

"There shall be freedom." The louder and more energetic Enjolras got, the quieter Combeferre seemed to get. He was sitting very still, his eyes aimed on their leader, his face glowing.

"There shall! Rail against it though they may, they cannot stop its inevitable march."

The glow spread from Combeferre's eyes across his whole face, his quiet passion balancing and completing Enjolras' fury and flame. "Like the march of dawn over a mountain, it will light all the skies and every man will be able to see the truth with his own eyes."

At that Enjolras stood still, the tides and storms of his great passion suddenly calm. He opened his arms, welcoming them all into the new world, free men. And although Luc felt the tide of passion and awe carry him along with them, he couldn't help but think about the one man who wasn't welcome. Sad thought. Dark corner for all those outside. Gnashing of teeth, and all that. But Enjolras was talking, and Luc found he'd forgotten whoever it was he had been thinking about. "So it shall. And whether we live or die we shall be its cause."

Combeferre nodded, and Enjolras sat back down and accepted a glass of water from his ever-ready assistant and lieutenant and whatever _else_ Combeferre was. "Are there any questions or issues?"

No one answered Combeferre's question. No one wanted to break the glorious spell Enjolras had woven over them all.

The rest of the meeting proceeded as usual. There was quite a heated discussion about Polignac and the indications that he was preparing to send armed troops to Algiers, stupid idea - Luc thought, but then _most_ of his ideas were stupid with the few that weren't bordering instead on the moronic. Combeferre exhorted everyone to continue writing to the Journals and the Papers and making contacts around other Republican groups, and Enjolras drew on both Voltaire and Rousseau as illustrations of the fallacies in both the king and Polignac's policies, before talking with each of them individually on their assignments and then winding the meeting towards a close, not a moment too soon for Lucien's liking. All my heart for the Cause, mon capitain, but you realise though I would gladly indeed _miss_ my date with my girl if you were to ask, I am nonetheless terribly happy I am not going to be required to.

"Good then, good then. I think...we're just about finished, then?" Enjolras looked around them all with a not-quite-seeing glaze over his eyes. No doubt he was still gazing on the glories of the Cause and the beauty of Patria. At their nods, he made a slightly abortive gesture. "Well - meeting adjourned."

Meeting over, Luc put his arm around Dominic's shoulder. **"**Drink?"

"Sure, why not?" Dominic was usually a little more emphatic about alcohol, so Luc put it down to the rather unnerving beginning of the meeting. Good. They were both on the same page, then. The others were drifting out of the café, and Combeferre appeared to be presenting Enjolras with various lists and notes that needed his attention.

The Gemini were among the last to leave, checking on each other in the way only really the Gemini did. The Eagle fretting over his Joli and Joli being his usual sickly self and finally them both just deciding to return to their shared flat. Lucien caught it all out of the corner of his eye as he bought a couple of glasses of some sort of foul red brew and took them back to Dom.

"Thanks, ami."

Luc sat back down, grinning a little as Lesgle knocked something over and spent the next five minutes apologizing to an indulgent Louison. Joly finally managed to drag his twin away, and Combeferre apparently had given Enjolras one list too many – must've been something ridiculous like a list of meals to eat for the next week – for Enjolras stuck the papers in his pocket, gave Combeferre a very respectable glare, and snapped, "_Damn_ it, I can take perfectly good care of myself. And you know it," before storming out of the café. Combeferre shook his head and nodded goodbye to them both before leaving himself, followed in short order by Feuilly.

" What, is it just you and me?" Dom cast a quick glance around the café.

"Just we two."

"Just as well."

"...yes." He took a swig of the wine and wondered not for the first time _why_ Grantaire would possibly want to drink so much of the foul stuff. "So... what do we do, then?"

"Hoped you had some idea." Dom seemed less concerned by the taste of the wine, but then _hell_ Dom didn't have the benefit of Luc's splendid palette.

"Damned if I do. Do you think it was him?" Time to see if they really _were_ on the same page. Luc set a lot of store by Dominic's opinion, possibly even a little more store than by Enjolras. In matters which concerned Grantaire, anyway.

Luckily, Dom's response was empathic. "Absolutely not. Why'd he ever pull something like that?"

"At the very least, he'd never have th' ambition." Luc said with a small grin.

"Or the nerve, I think."

Hearing Dominic say so made him feel just a little less guilty about thinking it himself. After all, no home likes to think his mates aren't – well – all that… uh… brave. But there was no getting around the fact that GrandR was just not the heroic type. "Aye - or that. Or even the enthusiasm. So... should we talk to Enjolras about it?"

"That would be the question." Dom appeared to be intending to leave all the decisions up to him tonight. Merde.

He scowled at his wine in the hopes that the vintage might be useful for something other than drinking. Maybe inspiration. Perhaps. "Mmm. He's not fond of GrandR at the best of times. It'd take some convincing." Oh. Did you hear that? That's me. Committing understatement.

"A lot of convincing. D'you think he'd even let us get a word in edgewise?"

Several images of Enjolras's possible reaction passed through Lucien's head very fast, and he winced. "I'm sure he'd be very nice about not letting us get a word in edgewise."

"Excruciatingly nice."

"Yeah. _That's_ the word for it." They exchanged a glance and both drained their glasses. Say what you will, it took a brave, brave man to go against Enjolras.

"Maybe if we get Combeferre over first?" Dominic offered helpfully, seeming to have found something like inspiration at the bottom of _his_ glass.

"Well - oui. That might work he's less... less...**" **What was a nice, polite way to say 'rude' 'prejudiced' 'judgmental'?

"Close-minded."

Thank you, Dominic. "That's the one."

"So you think we should give it a shot?" Dom inspected his glass for any traces of further alcohol, didn't find any, and seemed faintly disappointed.

"I think so. Poor bastard needs someone to speak up for him." No one else seemed willing to point out that freedom and equality was all very well, but what use was it really when one man is dumped out in the cold to rot merely because he wasn't as good-looking or brave as anyone else?

"'Struth, no two ways about it." Dom said rather seriously. Not normal for his friend to look so solemn about – well – anything.

"Maybe we can catch 'Ferre tomorrow before his classes."

"You mean at the _university_?" To his amusement this was what wiped the seriousness out of his ami's face and replaced it with sheer nausea.

He chuckled. **"**It's the Medical School, mon ami... I doubt there will be any Legal Professors there to net you and drag you to their classes."

"Good. You know I'm allergic to going to classes." Dom offered him a relieved kind of grin, and Lucien wondered not for the first time why Dominic Bahorel even pretended to attend university at all.

"Make you come out in spots, get dizzy, and develop an insane affinity for strong booze, I'd noted."

"The very symptoms."

Just like Joly coming down with the plague. "Well - his first class is at ten. We could meet him before that."

"It's a date."

Talking of dates… Dieu! He swilled back whatever was left in his glass and got to his feet quickly. One pretty femme, one restaurant too big for his purse, and one delightful night of pleasures afterwards. Much as he loved his ami, he was not missing this for a world of friendship. "I'll see you then, Ami. Now - Marguerite is waiting for me. Sweet sweet girl."

The barbarian had the effrontery to snicker. "She for whom you put on whatever is making you smell like a flowerbed?"

Just because you can't get one, ami… "She who wears these scents and keeps getting 'em all over my clothes. She's wonderful. So sweet and caring and loving and..." Dominic patted him on the shoulder.

" ...right, ami."

Of course right. Luc grabbed his hat, put it on his head and gave Dominic his very best 'I'm getting kissed tonight and you _aren't_' grin before hurrying out of the café with visions of loveliness in his head.


	12. The End of Pretending

A/N - And thus closes the first Arc of this series. The next Arc is already mostly written. We are just waiting for the last two chapters to be complete before we start posting it. Thank you to all our lovely readers and all those people who have been wonderful and left us reviews. As this is our last chapter of this story, if you're reading and you've enjoyed it, please review and tell us so! We'll be back with more crazy, amusing, exciting and swashbuckling tales very soon! Don't forget to check out technicolor-werewolf on devArt for her illustrations to each chapter!

xxxx

Joly was still reeling a bit from the shock and sheer irony of what Enjolras had done. Admittedly if you didn't have all the facts it did look rather black for Grantaire, but for god's sake…oh, he didn't know what he'd been expecting. But not that. Not at all. He checked briefly to make sure Daniel was not in the room and leaned back with a slight groan. What was he going to do now? He felt as if he should have said something. The truth wasn't safe, but couldn't he at least have come up with, say, "Enjolras, aren't you being a bit hasty?"

Oh Dieu. Now _that_ sounded stupid.

Somebody knocked suddenly at the door. "I'll get it," he called, and tried his best not to look as awful as he felt as he made his way to the door. He could have passed it off as something else but when you _knew_ it wasn't cholera or the scarlet fever it was awfully hard to be convincing, and anyway he'd had enough of lying to last several months.

Hoping it was somebody who could be got rid of easily, he opened the door and…he could only blink in surprise.

"Allo," Grantaire said flatly. He wasn't just disheveled, he was a complete mess. In fact, he looked less like a man and more like a man-sized doll that hadn't been hung to dry properly and so had set in a million creases – his clothes, his haggard face, his tangled hair.

"What…" He swallowed. Shouldn't be rude, come on, at least find it in _your_ heart to treat him like a man since no one else will. "Hello…"

"…can I come in?" he asked pitifully.

Maurice didn't know how he would ever be able to explain this to Daniel. Maybe if he was lucky, Grantaire wouldn't be in long enough to be noticed. Or Daniel mightn't mind. Or he would shrug it off as Joli being soft-hearted. "I…I suppose…" He lowered his voice a bit. "But L'Aigle's here, we can't talk…"

A few muscles in Grantaire's face made a valiant but inadequate attempt to form some expression. "…well...I could use some coffee anyway."

That was the truth. Maybe it would iron out some of those creases. Especially the sad-looking ones. There were a lot of those. "All right…I'm not sure if there's any made yet or not." Hopefully there would be. He didn't feel like asking Daniel to make more coffee, because that would mean explaining that there was somebody else there to drink it. He himself tried to avoid it in quantity, and no matter how hard he tried he'd never gotten the hang of making it. Something always went wrong with the water.

Just their luck, though – they walked back in and there was Daniel making coffee. And eyeing both of them in _extreme_ confusion. Damn. He tried to look confident but confidence was Harlequin's province, and he was uncomfortably conscious of how badly he was failing.

"Mornin' Lesgle," Grantaire said gruffly, breaking the awkward silence.

"…morning…Grantaire." More confused looks, including several that indicated mild worry over everyone's sanity. He didn't get that one very often. "How are you this morning?"

Oh _Daniel_ cher, of all the questions to ask. He felt excruciatingly awkward and had a sinking feeling the visit wasn't going to get much better.

"I'm _dandy_," Grantaire said with a grunt. Sarcasm: another thing Maurice had never gotten the hang of.

He and Daniel stood looking awkward for a minute, exchanging odd glances around Grantaire's head. Finally, thank Dieu, Daniel thought of something to say and tried to brighten up a little. "Want some coffee?"

"I was wondering if you'd made any," he said, jumping in gratefully. A quick glance showed him there weren't any cups out. Oh _good_. He ducked into their small kitchen and began rifling through cabinets. At some point he'd had a system – the only way he could keep track of anything – but Daniel wasn't very good at sticking to it and they'd eventually given up.

"My sole contribution to the vittles of the house," Daniel explained somewhat cheerfully. Joly really shouldn't leave them alone too long…no matter how little he wanted to go face Grantaire. He reluctantly pulled the last three clean cups off the top shelf (Coffee cups don't go on the top shelf. I can't _see_ onto the top shelf, let alone reach it easily. The top shelf is for ugly knickknacks so I don't have to lie when I tell my mother they got broken) and hurried back into the living room.

Daniel poured the coffee and continued looking at them both as if they'd grown an extra head. Grantaire didn't appear to notice. He couldn't think of a single thing to say and was beginning to become acutely uncomfortable.

"Um. Joli…" Daniel said, "We're all out of…um." He seemed to be trying very hard to think of something they were out of. "Flour. Flour! Oui. Um – I should go get us some flour. Before we need some."

Gratitude and relief washed over him. "Oh! Er. Oui. That would be good."

Daniel grinned reassuringly. "...I'll be out then. Buying flour."

"Try not to trip over that loose step," Maurice called after his friend, just in time to hear him crash to the ground.

"I'm fine!"

And then he was gone. Maurice shook his head; there had to be _something_ they could do about that step.

"That was subtle." He turned back to see Grantaire giving him a mildly amused eyebrow.

He handed him a cup of coffee and said the first thing that popped into his head. "Be nice."

"…nice? Moi?" Was that a _joking_ tone? It was unsettling.

"Toi." Too preoccupied to focus, he drank too much coffee at once and burned a large portion of his tongue. _Ouch_. One of these days it was going to scar over and then he wouldn't be able to use it as an indicator of his health anymore and that would _not_ be good but probably no worse than the fact that here was Grantaire sitting in his living room and it was irreparably awkward. Or was it?

"Mm." He was being more cautious with the hot liquid. "Sorry to disturb you. Didn't think about L'Aigle."

Didn't think about…how could one _not_ remember that Daniel lived here too? Especially after last week? "I'll just have to…think of some innocuous explanation, that's all."

"He's very astute," Grantaire said observantly over the rim of his coffee cup. Inexplicably, Joly felt a bit of pride. And gratitude that _someone_ else took Daniel even a bit seriously.

"Some…very, very clever innocuous explanation." At this, Grantaire grinned very faintly. Maurice just groaned. "It'll probably fall through. I'm not very good at these things." Why was he even saying this? It was the kind of thing he might tell Daniel. Not Grantaire. But Grantaire didn't seem to be Grantaire anymore so what was the harm?

Eesh. This was why he didn't drink coffee so often.

"You're doing okay." Grantaire sipped his coffee and looked almost reassuring.

He smiled faintly in return, beginning to not be surprised that he and Grantaire were…actually…getting along. "Heh. Thanks."

Grantaire shrugged a bit, then looked into his coffee cup. "It's good coffee."

Maurice nodded. "He's good at coffee. I'm still not sure how he manages to burn everything but coffee, but he does."

"A rare talent."

"I suppose so." The small talk was all well and good, but sooner or later it was going to run out…and at that point it did. Merde. Joly drank quite a bit of coffee very quickly until he could actually hear his ears buzzing. Nnnnnnh, that just _couldn't_ be healthy.

"So…uh…about the meeting today," he began, staring determinedly at the opposite wall. Oh look, a crack in it. Had something fallen against it recently? It must have been the last time he was cleaning, when Daniel tripped on the rug and knocked over the bookshelf with all the medical dictionaries. That had been an adventure to patch up.

"…yes?" Grantaire said, sounding equally uncomfortable.

"I…uh…" Really sounding intelligent, Maurice. Down went the rest of the coffee. "You know. Enjolras and all that. Blaming you."

"Mm. Loved th' irony of that, me."

"It…" He swallowed despite his dry mouth. It could either be dehydration or guilt. Given the amount of coffee he'd just consumed it had to be guilt. "Yeah. Irony."

Grantaire sighed. "Should've seen it coming, of course."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Glad they didn't make the same conclusion about you."

Joly's stomach twisted uncomfortably at the realization of how much more trusted he was than Grantaire was. "I almost thought they would."

His tone was bitter. "No. They wouldn't."

Were his current feelings of overwhelming guilt his punishment for snubbing Grantaire all this time? If they were, he probably deserved them. "I…yeah…"

Silently, Grantaire stood up and poured himself more coffee. Maurice looked down into his cup awkwardly and watched the thin liquid swirl.

"I didn't expect you to stand up for me, if that's what's got you on edge, Joly."

Something seemed to have broken in the region of his self-control. Oh _god_. "Well you know it was rather nerve-wracking to just sit there and listen."

"I assure you it was no more pleasant from the receiving end," Grantaire said drily.

He cringed a bit. Joly, what on earth is _wrong_ with you? "Sorry…"

But Grantaire just shrugged. "No matter."

"All right…" He took a sip of what was left of the coffee and resisted the urge to refill his cup. He didn't need any more right now; he was enough on edge already.

"I doubt I'll be coming back to the café," Grantaire said slowly. _What?_ Well…after all that with Enjolras…

"…oh. I…hm, I imagine not…" he managed. Grantaire seemed not to notice his awkwardness and continued on.

"Luckily, being a drunk works for me as well as against me. You realize that yourself and I are now some of the most wanted men in Paris – if they but knew who we were?" Maurice shivered and felt his eyes widen a bit. He had never thought that far ahead, oddly. "Lucky they won't be looking for a drunk," Grantaire continued. "Especially one that just got kicked out of the group. Hell, _no_ one would suspect I helped you break anyone out of prison."

"That's true." He winced a bit upon realizing what he'd just affirmed, but luckily the other man didn't look offended. "…you don't think they…might suspect me, though?"

"Oh no, I doubt it," he replied immediately, looking somewhat amused. Maurice supposed he deserved that. "Though you could stand to exaggerate a little more," Grantaire continued, looking him up and down. "The more absurd you are, the less likely anyone notices you, Joly."

He found himself biting his lip nervously. "Really? Seems a bit…counter-intuitive…"

"…well," Grantaire said wryly, "if they do notice you they'll think you're not good for anything. Just like me."

_Ouch._ Oh, ami, don't say things like that. It's only making me feel even worse for you. "You…do have a point."

He sighed. "I wish I didn't."

"No," he said, thoroughly unfocused. He came back to himself to find Grantaire giving him a raised eyebrow. "…what?"

"Nothing." He put his coffee cup down and stretched a bit, awkwardly. "I should get going before L'Aigle finishes buying his flour."

…the flour. Oh, Daniel. How was he ever going to explain to Daniel when he _did_ get back? "Oh. I suppose so."

Grantaire gave him that thin, stretched, crooked smile. It might have been sincere, but you could never tell. "Farewell, Harlequin."

Maurice could feel his own crooked grin distorting the corners of his mouth. He'd never been part of a real conspiracy before, Amis aside, and it was relieving to know Grantaire didn't intend to just cut ties and pretend it had never even happened. "Farewell, Scaramouche."

There was a sudden _thunk_ behind him, and Joly's stomach suddenly found itself on a level with his ankles. From the look on Grantaire's face it was evident he'd just experienced a similar dislocation.

"…_What?_"

Oh merde. Daniel.

Maurice turned slowly to face the doorway. At the moment Daniel looked angrier than he had ever seen him, even under the coating of flour from the burst paper sack he had just dropped.

"…Harlequin?" Merde oh merde oh merde, he was in for it. Daniel shut the door with a forced calm and dusted off some of the flour. "…and _Scaramouche_?"

There was too much going on for Joly's mind to process at once. It went for the easiest to respond to. "…you dropped the flour…"

"To hell with the flour." Daniel was being dangerously quiet. Maurice shot Grantaire a look that meant 'We're in trouble, aren't we?' and received a halting nod in reply. Daniel crossed the room slowly and surveyed them both. "…could you please explain, _Harlequin?_"

Maurice winced at the accusation and hurt in his voice. "Really, there wasn't any other way…"

"It was my fault he didn't tell anyone," Grantaire added helpfully. He was immediately shot down by a glare Enjolras might have been proud of.

"I'm…I'm really sorry…" He didn't even know what he was trying to say and he was still managing to mess it up. "…there just…we had to…"

Daniel turned the glare on him and continued in that same quiet tone. "...so you let me _worry_ about you _all_ that time? And suddenly you don't _trust_ me enough to tell me the truth? What is it, Joli?"

_Trust_. It wasn't a matter of trust. It was never a matter of trust. Cher, I never thought you'd tell. But if _they_ thought you would…ami, how could I? I would have died. Life would have become hell. And I'd explain this if I could get out words properly, but my throat's gotten very tight all of a sudden. "I…I really didn't want to, but…" He could hear the pathetic tone of his own pleading. "…look, I'm sorry…"

Grantaire cut in again, this time more awkwardly. "Look, L'aigle, really. It's not his fault. I told him it would be too dangerous for anyone to know."

"And it hurt an awful lot just having to watch you worry," Maurice added quietly.

Something seemed to soften in Daniel's attitude. "…well. Mmm. So…_Harlequin_, eh?"

He tried to grin but his facial muscles chose not to completely react. "Yeah. We…well it was really all his idea," he said quickly, pointing at Grantaire.

Grantaire reacted by putting his hands up defensively. "Damn. My idea? Don't blame _all_ of this on me, Joly."

"…and you told _Enjolras_ to get into a laundry sack?" No, he wasn't mistaken. Daniel was actually smiling now. He felt utter relief wash over him, and even giggled a bit at the memory of the Great Leader disappearing into such humble depths.

"Yes. You should have seen it," he said, his facial muscles finally agreeing to smile properly.

"Oh _merde_…" Daniel said slowly, suddenly struck by something. "…and they…just…" He looked at Grantaire apologetically. "Damn."

"That's a very apt way to put it, L'Aigle," Grantaire said.

"Yeah…" Maurice nodded along.

Daniel shook his head in mild confusion. Maurice really couldn't blame him. "So…you…and _you_…" – he pointed to Maurice and Grantaire in turn – "helped save the Amis."

"I just helped," Grantaire said defensively.

"_I_ just helped," Joly said firmly.

Daniel ignored them both. "…you _saved_ the _Amis_."

"…maybe," Grantaire admitted.

"It sounds like something really big when you put it that way," Maurice protested.

Daniel just grinned at them. "…ami…you broke seven people out of prison. That's big."

He felt himself blush a little. "Maybe."

"I have to go," Grantaire said suddenly.

"Do you?" he asked. It wasn't like Grantaire to leave in the middle of a discussion.

"I have…pressing business?" he said, looking about as awkward as Daniel had when proposing he go buy flour. Daniel looked amused.

"…well if you really don't want to stay I couldn't make you," he sighed. Something in Grantaire's face told him he'd just unintentionally assumed the look Daniel said made him look like an abandoned puppy.

"It's just…" He looked embarrassed. "Next thing you know he'll be wanting to say thank you or something." He pulled a face and Daniel laughed.

"Well I won't if it makes you _that_ nauseous."

Grantaire shrugged. "Well…fine then."

Joly grinned. Nobody was fighting. Daniel no longer looked like he would shortly threaten to move out. All was right with the world. …except that the clean floor…formerly clean floor…was still covered with flour and quite a good bit of it had been tracked further in. He felt the part of himself that required everything to be orderly twitch. "…there's still flour all over the floor," he said, standing up. "Where did you leave the broom?"

Daniel blushed. "I'll do it."

"I can get it, really." In his peripheral vision he could see the amusement on Grantaire's face. All right, so he could be a bit obsessive about getting things done right sometimes. He didn't think it was all that amusing, though.

"But…_I_ dropped it," Daniel pointed out, already removing his jacket and going to fetch the broom.

"But…" Nnnnnh. He had a point. "…all right, but make sure you get all of it." Daniel nodded very solemnly and disappeared after the broom. Maurice shot a glare at Grantaire, who was now grinning ear to ear. The other man held up his hands defensively by way of reply.

For a minute they both watched as Daniel self-consciously swept up the spilled flour. Then Grantaire stood, with an air that meant he really was going this time. "Thanks for the coffee, Joly."

He shrugged; it'd been Daniel's doing, not his. "Don't thank me."

Grantaire shrugged back lightly. "Au'voir. Goodbye, L'Aigle."

Daniel was concentrating too hard on not knocking anything over with the broom to really notice. "…oh, goodbye, Grantaire."

"Au'voir. I assume I'll see you around?" Maurice asked. Grantaire looked exceedingly surprised at this.

"…um…sure, I suppose," he said with a look that didn't bode well for his opinion of Joly's sanity. Ah well.

"All right then." He smiled, and received another sanity-questioning look followed by the most honest smile he'd seen on Grantaire's face yet. It was a good feeling to see him smile, like gluing pieces of a broken vase back together. Even though you could still see the cracks…at least it was in one piece. And didn't leak.

Grantaire a leaky vase? Dieu. This was why he never dabbled in metaphor. Better to stick with purely concrete concerns – like the proximity of the end of that broom to the very real vase on the end of the bookshelf. Joly leapt to grab it before he had some actual gluing to do; it had been _quite_ a long enough day already.


End file.
